Tread Softly
by sarramaks
Summary: Set between seasons 6 & 7, charting the return of Emily Prentiss to the team, and the demise of Doyle.  Spoilers for season 6.  Hotch/Prentiss. Updated Sept 17.  Genres should include angst & espionage too!
1. Prologue Part 1

_A/N: It's been some time! I lost the writing bug to real life, then four weeks ago me and my other half of some ten and a half years split up (long story – he's now with someone else.) This means I now have the time to write without feeling guilty, so it's back to fanfic for one last story._

_This takes place between seasons 6 & 7, following from Emily's exile, so there are spoilers! It's basically my take on what could happen to get Emily back into the team. This doesn't follow on from any of my previous stories._

_Excuse the Englishisms – I am not American and cannot write like one although I will do my best! This is a very short prologue – chapters of between 2000 and 2500 words will likely be the norm._

_I would really, really appreciate reviews! Will try to update tomorrow..._

**Tread Softly**

**Prologue**

"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky." - **Rabindranath Tagore**

St Petersburg, July 2011

It was a soft light that doused the river, flickers of orange and red from the sky mirrored on the waters that were calmer than usual; certainly calmer than she had seen them be for a few days or weeks. Emily leaned against the railings, the new statue of the Tsar Carpenter, St Peter in his younger days, not far from her. It was here she was to meet him; unless she decided to flee back into the city that she now knew better than any lover.

A seagull flew overhead, its repetitive call taking her attention. Its body was a silhouette against the evening sky which was no longer cloudless, promising a thunderstorm that would fit with the unusually warm weather. Thirty one degrees Celsius; nearly eighty nine in Fahrenheit. Her shoulders were bare, the usually alabaster skin tanned, telling tales of her tours around Europe. The thick dark hair that he would have known anywhere was shorter, barely grazing her shoulders and the bangs had finally grown out. But she wasn't unrecognisable. Or at least she hoped she wouldn't be.

Emily glanced at her watch. She was a half hour early, the anxiety she was feeling in the pit of her stomach keeping her from her novel so she had left the apartment she had rented for a month to visit the river and its ever-famished gulls, the heat of the evening calling the people outside like the Pied Piper to Hamlyn's children. Familiar footsteps fell behind her and she turned smoothly, smiling. They were not the footfalls of the person she was waiting for; they were more welcome than that.

"Good evening, Natasha," the man said. "What brings you to the river? I hope you have used mosquito repellent – they are out in force tonight." He rested his elbows on the railings overlooking the river, his eyes taking in the water below.

"I'm meeting someone," she responded in Russian, the name he had used now as familiar to her as the ones she had used in Paris, Barcelona, Athens. "An old friend."

"Not as old as me," he said. "Or you would be wearing a different expression. One not quite so pensive. A lover, perhaps?"

She laughed and a seagull took flight from some perch beneath her, the sudden noise causing its movement. The thought of Hotch being her lover caused more amusement than she had felt in the past three months. "No, Vitaly, he has never been my lover."

The old man looked at her, holding his gaze for a second before nodding. "I understand. Then tell me about him. He is not local, I assume. He is American?"

Emily didn't return his look; instead focusing on the boat that had appeared in view on the river. Vitaly was the old man who sat on a chair outside her apartment, in the cafe there, drinking endless cups of coffee served by his daughter. She had played card games with him; crib, rummy, whist, and he had taken her polished Russian and made it belong in St Petersberg. He was no spy or criminal, although she was sure he had checked her cards once when she had gone to the bathroom, and she'd had him checked, just to be sure. Now she knew she could've told him her true name, her real reason for being there, and he would have done nothing more than nod. But even she wasn't prepared to risk the full truth.

"He's American. He speaks no Russian though, so don't get your hopes up about beating someone else at cards," she said. "I'm expecting him to be here in half an hour."

"But you hope he doesn't come."

Another gull flew by, this one silenced by the fish it carried in its beak.

"I don't know. I will be disappointed not to see him." The realisation stung.

Vitaly pointed at the setting sun. "Every day we rely on that star, on the turn of the earth. Every day it does not let us down. It is okay to rely on things, Natasha. They will not always break our hearts."

"He's not like that," she said.

"Like what?"

"A heartbreaker. He's a colleague."

Vitaly's eyes remained on the dying sun. "He's more than a colleague, my dear, otherwise your expression would be different. A friend?"

The water below rippled outwards towards the banks as the boat came passed. Tomorrow she would take a boat ride; being on the water would soothe her. Then she'd look into where to go next and begin to make plans. Norway was the top of her list; a visit to Oslo, then north to see the Aurora Borealis. She wasn't sure how long this exile would continue for, ended either by Doyle or by the FBI, and she felt she needed to make the most of the next couple of months before returning to a more mundane existence.

"He is a friend," she said. "Albeit an unusual one."

Vitaly nodded, standing as straight as he could for a man who was in his ninetieth year. "You will tell me more tomorrow. Or even bring him. I'm sure I can muster up a little English." He extended his arm and tapped her under her chin. "There is a blessing in everything. Now good night, and don't stay out too late. These mosquitoes feed on the blood of the night owls best."

She smiled at his statement, feeling her phone vibrate in her purse. "Till tomorrow, Vitaly," she said as the old man nodded and walked away, leaning on his stick for a security she was sure he didn't need.

Emily didn't touch the phone immediately. Instead she returned to the river, watching the sun sink into the water and the sky turn to night; the only lights that of St Petersburg behind her.

Another home away from home.


	2. Prologue Part 2

It's busy being single! This is a short update and a second prologue. I wanted to explore a different side of Hotch here – there has to be more than handsome broodiness...

Thanks to HotchityHotchHotch for the chats and tweets! And her amazing fics which got me through a bad patch on Saturday!

Thank you to ilovefanfiction and Aphrodite96 for their reviews too!

**Tread Softly**

**Prologue 2**

"**You have to risk going too far to discover just how far you can really go.****" – T.S. Eliot**

**Berlin, July 2011 **

The melee of people had grown significantly since he had arrived at the airport. A few had left the premises, living close enough to return once the crisis was over, but he, of course, was stranded. It didn't matter that he was a member of the FBI, not here in Berlin, not when he was trying to keep a low profile. Not when he wasn't even using his own identity.

It was safer. Doyle, for all they knew, was having each member of the team tracked. They being him and JJ and a couple of high ranking authorities who Hotch would rather not consider right now, stuck in the middle of Berlin's Tegel airport with the humidity levels set at a hundred percent and enough irate would-be passengers to start a riot. If he wasn't in so much of a hurry he would pass the time by profiling them, but his patience stores had reach critical and if he didn't manage to find a spot where he could get reception on his piece of shit cell phone then he would be liable to take one of the planes himself and attempt to fly it to St Petersburg.

He leant against an information board and checked the bars on the disposable phone. Finally, there was a chance of sending Prentiss a text, to let her know he was delayed, that she had not been forgotten. His thumb hung over the keys. Indecision. He had no idea what to say, knowing that she wasn't happy to have him coming to see her any way. She wasn't waiting for him like a pining lover, or even like a friend. From what he had heard, read in her emails, she was fairly content, enjoying her sojourn abroad even if its cause still hung above her head like a sword of Damocles. He typed slowly, cursing the auto correct. _Plane delayed. Will contact you on arrival to rearrange meeting._ He didn't reread it before pressing send, not wanting to hear the impersonal tone in his head.

A small child dashed in front of him as he began to walk, reprimanded in German by a woman who might have been her mother. For a moment his heart twinged as he thought of Jack, leaving him again with Jessica. She didn't mind, but that didn't mean Hotch didn't. A small bubble of resentment bubbled in his stomach as he recalled the reason he was away from his son. A reason that could have been curtailed if Emily Prentiss had confided in him in the first place. Or not even him, anyone of them on the team. Then they could have gotten to Doyle first and she wouldn't be hiding in Europe, and he wouldn't be stuck in an airport in Berlin.

The screen announcing flight departures altered, drawing an immediate crowd. Hotch felt his stomach thud as he saw the new departure time of his flight. Twelve hours delayed. He closed his eyes as if sending a message up to the gods of travel, wondering if their sick sense of humour was enjoying itself.

"Excuse me."

He looked around for the voice, his momentary lapse into self pity broken. "Can I help you?"

There was a smile showing perfectly straight white teeth. Red lips. Dark hair. Ghost white skin. "Do you know if there's a passenger lounge? I'm sorry to bother you but..."

He nodded without smiling. "It's chaos. I would assume there is, although I'm not sure where. I'll need it myself."

"How long?" she said, tossing her hair behind her. She had blue eyes; unusual for someone with hair so dark.

"Twelve hours. You?"

"Thirteen, but it'll be longer. Where are you heading?" There was a hint of an accent; Eastern European, Slovakian maybe.

"St Petersburg," he said. "You?"

"Dubrovnik. Business meeting. Can I buy you a drink – pass some time?" She smiled again, warmth in her eyes beaming at him. Hotch became aware of his phone and that he hadn't received a message back from Prentiss.

He nodded. "Let me buy you one. It looks as if the lounges are over there." He gestured to the other side from where they were stood, a mass of people congregating, their expressions all the same. They ploughed their way through the crowd, the bar already busy.

"What will you have?" he asked.

"Brandy," she said. "Neat with ice."

He nodded, catching the bartender's eye. "Where are you from?" he asked his companion.

"Prague," she said. "My name's Eliska by the way."

Hotch's attention was taken away by the bartender. He ordered for them both, whisky for him, even though it was far too early for it. "I'm Graham." He held out a hand, her small one lost in his as they shook.

"Nice to meet you, Graham," Eliska said. "Are you travelling to St Pete's for business or pleasure?"

"Business," Hotch said. "A meeting unfortunately. You?" He knew what she was doing. He'd been the subject of it before. Passing time. Anonymously.

"Same," she said, picking up the brandy that was now on the bar. "Shall we sit? There's a table over there that's just become vacant."

"Sure," he said, handing over a ten euro note and getting very little change. He followed her to where she was sat, still smiling. The knot that had been tightening in his stomach eased and he pushed thoughts of Emily Prentiss to the back of his mind, trying to focus on the present, on the next twelve hours in the airport, rather than on the days he was missing with Jack and the volume of paperwork he would have to catch up on when he returned.

"So, Graham," Eliska said as he sat down, sipping his whisky. "Are you single?" The irrelevant question. His answer was unimportant because no one besides him and her would ever know. Her name would be as real as his, although for an entirely different reason.

Hotch maintained his usual poker face, putting down the glass. "At present," he said. It didn't matter what he said. He was in a different country to everyone he cared about, he had a different name and right now he needed a release. Something - anything - to take away the stress of the past few months. She didn't seem to be anything to do with Doyle or anyone else on the Interpol watch list and she was clearly interest in a forty something year old with no apparent baggage. And with no tomorrow, either. Just twelve hours.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I am?" she said.

He shook his head. "No. There's no need."

She nodded, studying the bottom of her glass before knocking back the rest of its contents. "Because it is unimportant to you?"

"Because I wouldn't know if you'd lied." That was untrue of course, he would have probably been able to tell if she had, but it didn't matter. They were in no man's land. In peace time.

"True. And I don't know if you're lying either. Tell me something about yourself," she said, sitting back, the skirt of her suit riding up her thighs as she stretched languidly.

He noticed her legs, slender and long, encased in sheer black tights or stockings. "There really is nothing to know. Would you like another drink?"

She nodded, handing him her glass. He gave her a brief smile, heading back to the bar. Eleven and a half hours left before his flight. Eleven and a half hours left in which he could be someone else entirely, if he dared.

...

A/N: Thank you for the reviews for the previous chapter. I'll update soon hopefully! Maybe tomorrow.


	3. Forgiveness is an act

This chapter is almost M rated, and does contain explicit language.

Thank you for the reviews – they were down on the first chapter, which makes me paranoid somewhat. I know I am playing around with Hotch, but trust me... This is a H/P story and there will be plenty of fixes. Everything has a reason!

Tread Softly

Chapter 1

"**Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart**." - Corrie Tem Boom

July 2011

Berlin

There was only a single room but that was sufficient. Its walls were off white and the sheets were past their best but that didn't matter as he peeled away the stockings from her legs, his fingers grazing skin that was softer than he'd imagined. It was the only hotel nearby with a vacant room. Only a three minute cab ride away; close enough that he could still taste the whisky on his lips when the cab pulled up. Close enough that he hadn't removed his tie in the cab.

She removed his tie now, her lips massaging his and passing on the taste of brandy. He let himself fall into it, the alcohol, the falsity, providing a safety net as he felt different muscles relax and tighten as they hadn't done for weeks, months. Doing it himself wasn't the same as this. The absence of another's body, their warmth and words could never be substituted. Even this, sex with a stranger, breathed life into him. A resurrection.

His shirt buttons popped open, the warm air soaking his skin. Her mouth lowered to his neck, those soft lips trailing along his skin, tenderly devouring him with his hands exploring her flesh. The whisky had blurred his mind, invited the recklessness that the situation called for. His colleagues would think him chaste, sexless even, since Haley. He was responsible, emotionally detached, passionless. Yet he knew he was none of those things, not really. Not now.

His fingers found the clasp of her bra which he undid fluently. Heavy breasts which belied her small stature were exposed to himself and the air, and he moved her mouth from his neck to look at them, his hands already there, fingers softly following their roundness. They weren't as nature intended; he didn't need Morgan to tell him that. But nor did he need Rossi to impart any advice. He pushed away thoughts of his colleagues as he bent down and sucked a nipple, half oblivious to the slight moan she gave as she leaned back.

Outside came in through the open window; a breeze, humid and airless, blowing the curtains back into the room then sucking them out again. The traffic murmured outside; the cacophony of a thousand things enveloping him in this hotel room, with this woman. She unzipped his trousers, pulling them down to his ankles and pushing him back onto the small single bed that dipped under his weight.

They didn't speak. The talking had been sipped along with the whisky and the brandy, leaving the night wordless. Somewhere, he knew, Prentiss was alone in a city that was strange to him, living a life he had little influence over. His thumbs slipped down the sides of her panties, pulling them over her thighs and exposing the rest of her. A siren sang outside, soon disappearing into the distance leaving the constant din of cars and planes in his ears.

Everything blurred; the room, the noises, the humidity, as she sheathed and mounted him, riding him fast, taking her pleasure as if time would not be her friend for much longer. It didn't matter about him, just as it didn't matter about her. They were cloaked in anonymity; its thick invisibility shielding them from the rest of the world.

He called out as he came. The release a last loss of his composure. He'd felt her tense around him, her own hand aiding herself to an orgasm that she took with her eyes closed. He was not part of her ecstasy, merely a rung on the ladder to her peak.

The room fell silent even though the buzz from outside continued, an ever present unnatural hum. The silence encompassed them, weaving a rough blanket between them. She manoeuvred herself off him and the bed, the alcohol negated by the act they had completed. Was it sex? Could it be called that? Or was it simply fucking?

"I'll take a shower," she said. "Have a good trip, Graham."

Hotch didn't watch her walk to the bathroom. Instead he sat up and looked out of the window over the city, its lights still twinkling. He knew he should feel guilty, ashamed maybe. Some good Catholic guilt. But he felt nothing except lightness above his shoulders and a dull ache. She could be married, he knew, he hadn't asked. But she hadn't told him, and who was he to be her moral compass. He could profile people all of the time, analyse their lies and half truths, but would that make him happier?

He got up off the bed and wrapped the used condom in a tissue, throwing it in the trash can. It would be too late by the time he reach St Petersburg to meet Prentiss. He could check into a hotel, shower and sleep, see her in the morning, by which time, this act he had just committed would be nothing other than a memory. Clean clothes, a freshly pressed shirt and sleep sounded blissful, especially now his head was starting to pound.

The door clicked as he closed it; the only noise on the corridor. He would leave her to pay for the room as after all, she was staying longer. A chain of taxis were outside, their drivers talking to each other in German, several with cigarettes. Long streams of smoke rose up to heaven and he wondered if God ever got sick of the smell, or if he could even purify that.

St Petersburg

The message from Hotch told Emily little. He was delayed, but it didn't say how long for. She assumed that he would contact her in the morning and not expect a rendezvous in the early hours of the morning, so she left the river and headed towards the taxi rank with the intention of an early night with a book in bed. Ahead of her she could see a crowd. Automatically she redirected herself, keeping to the shadows, but something in her stomach told her to press forward.

Gut instinct was important; she'd relied on it a fair bit in her time and she wasn't going to ignore it now. Trying to blend into the buildings she edged closer, seeing the police and the paramedics and hearing panic and shock.

It was the shoe she recognised, its worn leather that the owner's daughter had been pestering him to replace standing out like a beacon on a moonless night. Emily smothered her vocal reaction, taking a step backwards. A police officer shifted and she saw the full length of her friend, the red of his blood staining the pavement.

She walked away quickly, but not quick enough to attract attention. The last thing she needed now was to be questioned by the police or anyone. Vasily was dead, killed, and she had to assume it wasn't a random mugging gone wrong. She had to move quickly, without hesitation.

It would be a risk to head back to the apartment, but one she would need to take. There were belongings there that were too telling to leave behind. If Doyle was behind Vasily's death then he would know where she was staying, or have seen her that evening – if not him, then one of his men. There would be a chance that they had already broke into the small place she was calling home, one step ahead of her again, and going back would be futile and dangerous, but she had to risk it. Then she had to get the hell out of there.

Hotch. Her mind drifted suddenly to her ex-boss. If they were watching him then they may have learned through him where she was. Anger boiled in her. She had asked him not to come and told him she didn't need to be checked up on. Yet he'd insisted, as had JJ. The frustration and annoyance gave power to her pace and she found herself half a mile away from the scene already. Seeing a cab approaching she flagged it down, administering her instructions in Russian, the St Petersburg accent a reminder of the man from whom she'd learnt it.

"I will need payment up front," the driver said.

"Half now, half at the airport," she replied, staring out of the window as they passed the sights of the city she loved so much, and now had to leave behind.

Quantico

"Hey, baby girl!"

Garcia spun round on her chair, slightly perturbed that a non computerised being had entered her domain.

"Derek! I haven't seen you since..."

"About three hours ago. Pen - " he stopped, his expression lacking the spark she was used to.

"What is it? Is everyone okay. Reid..."

"Is fine. I need to ask a favour."

She studied him; her racing heart calmed although her brain was now beginning to whirr. "Is it legal? If it's not, it doesn't mean I'd say no, you know that don't you? But it doesn't mean I'd say yes, either."

"It's not legal, at least, I doubt it is. It's certainly not something I should be asking you to do."

She nodded slowly. "But you wouldn't ask me to do it if you didn't have a good reason. Can you tell me what the reason is? It doesn't matter if you can't." Garcia felt her heart begin to pound again.

Morgan was silent, his eyes on the forest of monitors.

"Derek. You're scaring me now."

His gaze returned to her. "I need you to track down Hotch for me."

"Why?" she said. "He's gone on vacation. He'll be away a week – do you think something's wrong?"

Morgan's eyes moved away from her again as he nodded. "I think he's gone to find Emily."

_Please review!_


	4. Death is like an arrow

_Short update – I will try to keep my promise to update more regularly... At least the story now has a plan..._

_Please keep reviewing. It's been a strained week. This story is liable to match my mood – I guess writing it is some kind of therapy (free therapy which is even better!). However, the rather wonderful HotchityHotchHotchhas challenged me to write a fluffy funny oneshot, so keep your eyes open for that!_

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 2**

"Death is like an arrow that is already in flight, and your life lasts only until it reaches you." – Georg Hermes

St Petersburg

This time it was Amelie; a French national, born in Arras. Natasha had disappeared, died along with Vasily. His name hung heavy over Emily's heart, and she knew at some point she would have to grieve, not only for him, but for the others she hadn't saved in the process of saving herself. This time was worrying as she'd had no inkling that Doyle had found her; there had been no intelligence to suggest that he or his associates had been anywhere near St Pete's.

There was the possibility that it wasn't him behind Vasily's death; that it was a random mugging. But there was something about the scene that had rung an alarm in her head, although that could have been paranoia. It was safer to leave though; safer to disappear into the ether, so she was at yet another airport taking the first suitable flight out and this time it was to Helsinki, with a vague plan to travel north after a week or so. There was still one problem: Hotch was on his way to St Petersburg.

Emily eyed a pay phone, knowing that she somehow had to risk contacting him, and hope he had not boarded his flight. She took out her phone and began to text him, keeping the words sparse.

_Don't board. Urgent._

She looked at the number on the payphone. It would be safer for him to call that. She typed in the number and pressed send, anxiety spreading like a flood through her body. For a moment she was tempted to find the little packet she kept in her purse; the round tablets that she kept with her but never used.

"Excuse me; may I get to the phone?" A man said in Russian that was not from St Petersburg.

"I'm sorry," Emily said, edging closer to it. "I'm waiting for a call. There's another over there." She pointed to a pay phone that wasn't in use and he gave her a curt nod, moving away just as the phone began to ring.

She answered in Russian, her heart beating too quickly to be comfortable. There was a pause before the caller spoke; a pause during which she was unsure whether someone had intercepted the message she had sent her former boss.

"Reid says hello."

She felt her legs give way slightly at the sound of Hotch's voice. "Hotch," she responded. "We need to reconvene elsewhere."

"Have you been compromised?"

The weakness she had felt was replaced irritation that he could have been the reason for this; her move, Vasily's death.

"Possibly. I have to assume so. I'm heading to Helsinki." There was silence while she practised the words she needed to say in her mind. "I think you should go home."

"No. Not an option."

"Why?" Emily covered her ear with her hand. The noise around her seemed to be growing in volume.

"I'll discuss it with you when I see you tomorrow. Be safe. The British consulate at sunset." His voice was firm, self assured. She wished he was with her now so she could pummel his chest and cry into his shoulder. But she was strong. He would expect nothing less.

"Tomorrow." She hung up, hearing the call to board her flight.

Berlin

Hotch hung up, immediately glancing around him for anyone who look suspicious. No one did, so he blended into the crowd and meandered towards the desk where he could look to buy a new ticket, hoping the flight to Helsinki was soon than the one he should have been on to St Petersburg.

Emily's voice rang in his head like a hangover. _You should go home_. He couldn't. He didn't want to. He didn't want to see her either. An image of her dead body sprang into his mind and nausea churned in his gut. There had been one moment when he had thought it would have been easier if she was dead; then he would have something to mourn. But no sooner had he thought it than guilt surged through him like a lava flow.

"Is it possible to exchange my ticket for one to Helsinki?" he said to the girl serving.

She took the ticket from him and gave a brief nod. Within a couple of minutes he had transferred flights with less trouble than it would have been to exchange suits. The flight was in just under two hours. He'd arrive in Helsinki shortly after three in the morning, which meant he'd need a hotel, and to contact Emily to say they could meet earlier than sunset.

Heading to the overpriced coffee kiosk, he used his handheld to find a hotel and booked online, all thoughts of Emily pushed out of his head while he dealt with the practicalities. It was something tangible, something he could grasp onto while he pushed old fantasies and daydreams out of the way.

But she was no longer his subordinate.

Hotch stared at his ticket and passport and felt alone. Lonely. He was in an unfamiliar country, too far away from his son, tracking down a woman who didn't want to see him. He was trying not to think about what had just happened in the hotel room. He felt slightly dirty, seedy. It wasn't him to do such a thing, but it had been such a long time, and he was a different person. He unconsciously placed a hand on the pocket where his passport was.

"What can I get you?"

He looked up at a small youth, stood behind the coffee kiosk wearing a bright red baseball cap.

"Coffee with milk," he said, registering enough detail should he ever need to recall his face.

"Sure," he said. "There's a table free over there. If you want to grab it, I'll bring your coffee to you."

Hotch gave a nod of gratitude and strode to the table, reaching it just before a rather wide lady and her daughter or niece took it. He felt their glares in the back of his head, heard a few words of German directed his way that he was sure weren't complimentary. Then he forgot about them, about his surroundings, and found himself lost in a world of thought that consisted of exactly how he was going to get himself and Emily out of this mess, and wipe Ian Doyle off the face of the planet.

Quantico

Reid sat next to Rossi, holding his lime and soda without trying to make conversation. Rossi was on his second whisky, seemingly drinking slower than usual, and watching Morgan and Garcia with interest.

"That's one intense conversation. Derek hasn't even noticed the woman who's been eyeing him up all evening," Rossi said.

Reid didn't move his eyes. He couldn't tell what they were saying as he couldn't see their lips properly, but their hunched body language suggested it was something they didn't want him and Rossi to be party to. "I think they mentioned Emily."

"Reid..."

The tone in Rossi's voice was warning. He knew they were concerned about him still; they he hadn't gotten over Emily's death. But he wasn't the only one that was still in mourning. Hotch hadn't looked anything other than a shade of grey since it had happened; JJ was different too – more businesslike, brusque even, especially when Emily was mentioned.

"They are. They're discussing Emily."

"Why would they be? If they were talking about her, they would have included us in the conversation. Anyway, I think you should have a beer. That lime will be turning your brain cells green." Rossi stood up, downing the rest of his whisky.

"No. I'm fine. Actually I think I'll go home." Reid stood also, leaving his almost full drink on the table. He ignored Rossi's calls to stay, and instead walked outside, the heat of the evening hitting him like the news of Emily's death yet again.


	5. Thunder and lightning are crashing down

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Don't worry, this is certainly a Hotch Prentiss fic, but it will have a few twists and turns before we reach the happily kind of ever after! It is a rather dark fic, and adult in its tone..._

_This chapter is rated M, so if you're under 16 you shouldn't be reading._

_Reviews are loved – feedback is really important, especially about my style of writing. I haven't written anything quite like this before, so comments are appreciated._

_Thanks_

_Sarah_

_Oh, and thank you to HotchityHotchHotch for the read through._

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 3**

"Thunder and lightning are crashing down.  
>They got me on the run, direct me to the sun.<br>Redemption keeps my covers clean tonight." – Brandon Flowers, _Only the Young_

Quantico, July 2011

"If Hotch ever finds out..."

"I got your back. You know that." Morgan leaned against the table, trying to appear composed. An old slow soul song came on in the background. He tried to let the music wash into him, to calm the agitation and excitement he'd felt since Garcia had confirmed what he's suspected.

"I can't believe she's alive." Garcia stared at the bottom of her glass, the cocktail untouched. "Do we tell Reid?"

Morgan shook his head. "No. We can't tell anyone. There's a reason we weren't told in the first place. We have to keep schtum, Baby Girl. Tell no one."

"Do you think we'll see her again? Or is this it? I don't know what'd be worse – thinking she was dead, and we'd never see her or this – knowing she's alive but..."

"Garcia," he said, interrupting. "We have to take things easy. I know it's hard, but Emily's had to leave everything because of a man who we've not caught yet. She's out there still looking for him – and I imagine that's what Hotch has gone to do."

"Or maybe he's just gone to check up on her. This isn't his case, it's not an FBI thing."

Morgan could see the scenarios she was dreaming up flitter across her face. He let a smile go free. "I don't know why Hotch has headed over there. I would have thought it would have been too risky. If Doyle has someone watching him then he could lead them straight to Emily. It worries me that you managed to find out this information..."

"Remember that I am the best, Derek Morgan. And I made sure no one else could get in them. The encryption on them is now tighter than a nun's panties. And now I sound like Kevin." She finally lifted the glass to her mouth and drank. "Can I tell Kevin about this?"

"Do you need to?" He'd rather she didn't tell anyone, but Kevin could be useful if what he had planned came off. Also, if her behaviour was odd, he'd suspect something anyway. It was possibly best if he did know.

"I know it should just be between us, but I guess I'd feel better to not have to lie to Kev. It's going to be bad enough keeping it from Reid and Rossi – and JJ. Do you think she knows?" She sounded anxious now. "Do you think something's happened to Emily? Is that why Hotch has gone?"

"I don't know." He wished he did. "All we know is that he's in Berlin, under a false name and has been in touch with someone who looks incredibly like Prentiss. Look, Garcia, I don't want to put you under pressure to find out any more. What we did today could put us under some serious pressure from above, and I understand if you'd rather not carry on..."

"There's no way you can find out any more without me. Not without following Hotch out there, and that would be like finding a very small needle in a barn of haystacks. What is it you are proposing to do anyway?"

Morgan paused, not sure what her reaction would be. "Find Doyle first."

...

Helsinki, July 2011

The white sheets creased beneath her; their smoothness sullied by her slight weight as she sat cross legged on the bed. The hotel room door was locked, a chair behind it, her revolver in front of her. Her heart was no longer pounding; in fact, she felt calmer than she had for week, able to breathe deeper instead of the short, shallow breaths she had become accustomed to.

Emily checked that the safety was on the gun, trailing her finger along the cool metal, reassured by the familiar feel. She was in an unfamiliar country, possibly caught off guard, running scared – as scared as she had been since all of this had begun. She pulled herself off the bed and sank her feet into the plush carpet; a little bit of luxury she had allowed herself for a night or two. Carrying the gun with her, she switched on the bathroom light and looked around. Shower cubicle with wall jets; double sink; Jacuzzi bath; thick white towels. There was no reason she couldn't lose herself here for a while, if only she could let go of the thoughts that were plaguing her.

She turned on the hot water, rinsing out the bath before allowing it to fill up. She wanted the water to be hot, almost scalding, to burn away any feeling and make her numb just for the night. She began to peel away the clothes that she'd been wearing for at least twelve hours, debating whether to just throw them away. They were covered with her fear, her anticipation and sadness. Vasily was dead; maybe because of her. Tomorrow and the day after she would have to check the internet to see what reports there were of the incident, the murder.

She sat on the edge of the bath and pulled off her jeans, air circulating around her legs. Rubbing a hand over her shins she felt the slight growth of stubble, but it felt good to feel her own skin. She pushed a finger into a bruise on the side of her calf from where she had caught the corner of something, the slight pain wakening senses that had been pushed to one side. Emily stood up, feeling slightly dizzy due to lack of food and the heat that was now rising in the room. The full length mirror was almost steamed up, but she stared into it anyway, seeing a body that was thinner than it had been. The bruise on her leg stood out; colour against the pallor of her skin. She didn't look her age; no one would guess she was approaching her fortieth birthday. Only her eyes gave it away, with all that they'd seen.

Her shirt joined the jeans on the floor, revealing a bra that had seen better days. She was still toned, her thighs were still slim, her stomach still flat. She traced a finger over her stomach, feeling the muscle underneath the thin skin. It felt good, to have the time to feel something other than just fear.

A noise from the room next door made her open her eyes wide, and for a moment she was back in another hotel room, back in America, Milwaukee. And next door to her wasn't a stranger, but her boss and she was listening to him pacing the floor at four o'clock in the morning, waiting for news that someone else had died.

In the room in Helsinki, Emily's hands slipped behind her and unclipped her bra, tossing it onto the pile. She pushed her breasts up with her hands, cupping them roughly and looking at them in the mirror, half her mind focusing on them, the other half thinking about who was next door.

It was no random stranger that she pictured. She slipped off her panties, kicking them to one side, a slight wetness from them grazing her foot as she did so. Fear, adrenaline, endorphins merged into an arousal she hadn't been allowed to feel for weeks. She turned off the tap, the steam rising in billowing clouds, steaming over her reflection so it was only a blur in front of her.

Who was next door? Her eyes half closed, pictures forming behind her lids and her heart pounded like a trapped butterfly. Recollections of a scent probed her memory. Musk. Mixed with sweat, adrenaline. The smell of a man, his voice, his footsteps.

Her hands became his as they ran across hardened nipples, calluses brushing over sensitive skin. Hearing him, next door. She remembered her head, leaning against the thin wall of a cheap hotel as she listened to him making himself feel alive in the basest of ways. His call as he made himself come.

She needed release herself, just like she had that night, before Doyle, before this exile. She remembered seeing Hotch the next day, her eyes meeting his, remembering that she had heard him, his call, him being human. And it was then she'd realised what she wanted. To make him feel, to make him call her name as he came inside her. She needed that power.

It was wet between her legs. The hair that had grown too long was damp and she could smell herself, a single smell of sex that wouldn't stain her sheets. She thought of him as the steam wrapped around her, holding her in a damp caress. She thought of him as her fingers pushed inside her, imagining him filling her up, stretching her. She knew the dull ache inside her would not be ceased by her own hand. She tried to imagine it was his, his fingers smoothing her wetness; his hand cupping her breast, rubbing her nipple with a rough hand. His lips on her neck as he sat behind her, his erection pressed against her back, waiting, waiting for her to be ready. Emily flicked her fingers faster, hearing her own gasps, short inhalations of air.

Images of his body, his chest, his face near hers, his mouth against her skin. She moved her other hand down, away from her breast, pushing her fingers roughly inside her. Everything was forgotten now; Doyle didn't exist, neither did Helsinki. She tightened, feeling the peak approaching and her breaths shortened.

And then she fell, unable to stop herself from calling out. The images she had seen disappeared as her muscles clenched, her body shaking with the release. She opened her eyes and looked at her hazy image in the mirror, seeing her own ecstasy. Emily tipped her head back as her orgasm subsided, her body throbbing with its force. Her heart began to slow, her shoulders felt lighter. She left her fingers against the wetness, now hunching slightly. She saw herself in the mirror. Sat alone. her eyes bright.

She was alive.

...

Morning was hazy in the Helsinki sky; faint rumours of yellow and orange hung on the horizon, swirling in the black of the night's clouds. Hotch had stopped the cab when he'd seen his hotel in the distance, wanting to breath air that was from neither an airport or an airplane. It had hit his lungs hard, making him breathe deeper, lusting for the air.

The streets were empty. Nothing was awake. He wondered where Emily was now, if she was safe, if she was in bed, asleep between white hotel sheets, or if she had found some place else to stay. He was exhausted, a sleepless night and sex having tired him out. He couldn't remember her face, the girl in Berlin, just her hair. And when he tried to picture her face, he just saw Emily's: brown eyes, red lips.

Hotch pushed the image away, blaming it on lack of sleep, his brain playing tricks on him. He'd dreamt about her since she'd gone; strange dreams. He'd dreamt he was in bed with her, touching that skin, his fingers tracing paths up her legs. Then he'd caught sight of himself in the mirror and seen Ian Doyle.

"I have a reservation in the name of Michael Freeman," he said, finding himself at the reception of the hotel without having realised it.

The receptionist looked tired, her shift clearly coming to an end. She typed rapidly and looked as if she was trying to smile. "Room 323. Third floor. Do you need any assistance with your luggage?" She placed a swipe card in front of him.

"No, I can manage, thank you." He slid the card, almost dropping it on the ground and headed to the elevator that was already waiting, little need for it at this time of day, or night – he was too tired to consider what it actually was.

The whirring of the elevator came to a stop, the doors opening in front of his room. He flicked the key card into the slot, waiting for the click before pushing the door open. Leaving his luggage near the door he headed into the bathroom, needing to wash and then he heard a half familiar sound. He froze, unable to place from exactly where he knew it, and as he recognised its cause he tried to shut it out, aware that he was intruding on someone's privacy just by listening.

He left the bathroom, half his mind still wrapped up in the sounds of some woman's orgasm cascading through thin walls, and tried to concentrate the other half on stripping his clothes from his body, then falling into bed in a half sleep that centred round the sounds that reverberated in his memory, a face becoming less blurred as they echoed into his dreams.


	6. All journeys have secret destinations

_A/N Serious apologies for the s l o w update! I will get more frequent now. Thank you for the reviews for the previous chapter – apologies if anyone found it a little much! This one is a very safe T!_

_I have been trying to reply to reviews, but for some inane reason, the site won't let me! I promise (in the spirit ofhotchityhotchhotch and sussiray) a oneshot of the choosing of reviewer number 101! _

_Please review – I really appreciate your thoughts and comments, and they will speed up the next update!_

_Sarah x_

Tread Softly

Chapter 3

"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveller is unaware." – Martin Buber

Helsinki, July 2011

No two days ever begin the same. They may start with rain or sunshine, or both, a rainbow cascading over a fishing port or mountain village. They may start with a smile or tears, an argument or an act of love. They may start with none of these. For no two days ever begin in the same way.

Hotch slept for seven hours straight, waking up with glorious sunlight streaming through his window. For a moment he had no recollection where he was, the four wall painted in beige could have been anywhere. He sat up, his head throbbing, his mouth dry, and remembered yesterday. Berlin. Eliska. Emily. Helsinki. Emily.

Emily.

Pulling himself from between the standard hotel sheets, he aimed for the window, looking out across the city. Helsinki was beautiful, but right now that beauty was lost on him. He opened a window; fresh warm air circulated into the room, but it didn't clear his head. He rested against the window sill, his eyes unseeing. He'd lied to his son to be here; lied to his colleagues bar JJ; lied to himself. He wanted to kick the wall in anger, but the restraint that had been his curse and blessing for the past forty something years held him back. The hand he held against his face told him he needed to shave, but for the first time in several years there was no need to. In fact, it would be better to hide his face. It would be better to hide a lot of things.

He didn't feel hungry. His appetite had diminished since Prentiss had left; Rossi commenting at her funeral that he needed a new wardrobe or a good tailor. He hadn't responded. He hadn't been responding a lot lately. They'd put it down to grief.

Was that what he was feeling? Grief? To some extent she had died. She wasn't in his life any more. She wasn't there at her desk every morning, in their briefings, on the plane. She didn't surprise him at his house in the evenings with a takeout and a bottle of wine or whisky or cognac. Was it grief? But she wasn't gone; not like she was for the others. In some ways he envied them, envied their opportunity to move on, something he and JJ couldn't do. And it was different again for JJ, his sole confidante in the matter. She heard from Emily regularly, she'd seen her twice. He'd been left impotent; unable to do anything except go through everything he already knew, just as he'd done with Foyet.

Billows of white cloud had flooded the sky, promising humidity later on, and a thunderstorm that would do nothing to alleviate his mood. He couldn't shake the black dog that was clinging to his shoulders, weighing him down, as it had ever since he'd found out exactly how far Prentiss had gone with Doyle. At first he'd considered Stockholm Syndrome: she had after all been almost a prisoner in the situation. Then his diagnosis had changed. She'd been in love with him, whether because her role demanded it or because the chemistry was right he didn't know. He kept on telling himself he didn't need to know, that it was nothing to do with him. But it was.

He'd dreamt about it, once on the plane when they were flying back from a case. He'd watched her sleep with him; seen him move above her; heard her cry out and call Doyle's name. Rossi had woken him, looked at him with concern and for a moment, Hotch had wondered if he had read his mind and seen the dream for himself.

Forgiveness was not something he'd struggled with before. But leaning against the window sill of an anonymous hotel room, looking over a city that was a complete stranger, he found himself unable to find the will to forgive. Only he didn't know whom the forgiveness was for.

...

Quantico, July 2011

Even though she knew cramp would set in soon, JJ still sat on the chair with her legs tucked under her, thus cutting off a good deal of the blood supply. She stared at the monitor through red rimmed eyes, lack of sleep not caused by Henry for once. What she was reading was disturbing, on too many levels to be considered at stupid o'clock in the morning. Will was fast asleep, used to her nocturnal habits and able to sleep through an earthquake pretty much anyway.

"Aaron Hotchner," she said aloud, the sound breaking the silence of the night. "Of all the stupid things..."

The email had come through to one of the many free accounts she had set up, some of them with bizarre addresses that only she, Emily and perhaps Garcia would understand. The references contained within them frequently left a black hole in her chest as she considered how her life had changed in recent months, and Emily's even more so.

"_Babushka," _Emily had written. _"In Helsinki. It goes without saying that this account will be deleted once you've received this. Vasily was killed yesterday in St Pete's. I left and headed north. The man who never smiles anymore is headed my way – I assume this is in conjunction with you?_

"_I need to know if Vasily's death was connected as paranoia has finally sunk in. The lack of information is disconcerting. I expected Him to go to ground to regroup, but not for this long. St Pete's was exhausted of all info and I'm expecting little up here, but will stay for the length of time the chocolate god keeps a girl to cover all bases. I have a connection and will update you when safe._

"_Please let me know how everyone is._

"_I love you."_

JJ reread it twice more, her heart awake and pounding. She hadn't heard from Clyde Easter for five weeks and was now suspecting the worse. Doyle may be regrouping, but his henchmen would have no need to. It wasn't them who had undergone an emotional upheaval.

She picked up her mobile and pressed the number three key to speed dial Hotch. It had been Emily's number, but she'd needed a replacement, and Hotch was the closest thing she had to her. Even Will didn't know.

Voicemail answered, as it had done a few hours before and the day before. Without asking Garcia to restart her old habits JJ had no way of getting in touch with him. She put the phone down and rested her head on her hand, elbows on the desk, now staring at the screen.

"We need a break," she said to herself, willing the monitor to flick to screen that presented all the answers. It didn't happen. As much as she didn't want Emily's friend Vasily to be a victim of Doyle's it would give them a clue as to where he was. That might be all they needed. Emily would know that, so at least she was thinking straight enough to not hang around; to gain some distance while they got more information.

JJ forced her hands back to the keyboard and began to search for yesterday's murder, using the search engine's translate facility as much as she could. This had been one of the hardest tasks in the past few months, understanding the languages of the countries Emily had been to in the hope of finding Doyle. So far, JJ had managed a fair bit of French, a smattering of Russian and had a good enough grasp of Italian to be able to consider a vacation there. Nothing came up about the incident that was significant; no details were given that suggested there was more to it than a street mugging, and JJ did consider it to be a strong possibility that his death was not the work of Doyle or his associates. There was no message left, no over kill or torture.

She stood up and moved away from the desk, deciding that a night time walk around the garden would help to clear her thoughts. There was the option of meeting Emily herself, sooner rather than later, to intervene between her and Hotch. Something was unresolved there; something had been underlying within him since Emily had gone and JJ hadn't been able to put her finger on it. Garcia had said that Hotch was dealing with Emily's death rather hard, but JJ knew otherwise. There was no death to deal with, just a different sort of grief.

Unlocking the patio doors, JJ let the soft night air wrap round her like a cotton sheet, inhaling the sweet scent of the lavender that grew just outside. Blankets clouded the sky; a duvet that would prove suffocating tomorrow, but for now it was pleasant. She went barefoot outside, Henry's night light one of the only brightened elements. Rhythmic chirping of crickets provided a little night music as she walked across the dry grass to the bench that Will had made, sitting with her feet up, knees bent.

There were things she had yet to understand; about her friend, about the case, about Doyle and Emily's relationship with him. She had crossed the line. Was that why she was the thorn in Doyle's side? The best he'd saved till last? Emily had taken his heart as well as double crossed him. But in taking Doyle's love, she would have had to have given some of herself too – why else keep hold of the necklace he had given her unless there were fond memories wrapped around it too?

Too many questions. JJ looked up at the sky, seeing nothing except dark clouds frosted white by the moonlight behind them. There would be no answers tonight. An image of Hotch floated into her mind and where he was now. She'd never known him act on impulse. Even with Haley and George Foyet, the impulse had been controlled until the very end, but to take off like he had done now...

"You enjoying the night, Cher?"

JJ jumped, then turned to face Will. "Did I wake you?"

He shook his head. "No – I'm not sure what did. Something you want to talk about? You're not at your computer so I guess something's on your mind that technology can't solve."

She looked to the ground.

"Can't speak about it? I guess it's to do with Emily." He sat down on the grass, facing her. "I know you have to keep secrets, so tell me what you can without breaking any."

JJ found a smile breaking from her lips at the sound of his drawl. He was always there, unquestioning, accepting. "What have you worked out?"

"That Emily's not dead. That she's gone underground; to find Doyle, or to hide, or both."

She couldn't ask how he knew, because then she would confirm his suspicions and she'd be breaking the rules of her job. "Hotch has gone to Europe. Without consulting anyone."

"And this isn't for a vacation. He's gone to find her and you're not sure why, because there isn't much he can do. Does he know the full picture?" Will said, his fingers pulling blades of grass from the lawn.

JJ thought for a moment, trying not to consider how Will knew Emily was still alive. "He knows enough. He needs to solve this problem on more than one level, though, and it's that what bothers me."

"The whole Doyle thing; avenging his team and something else." Will looked up at the sky, his slow drawl suiting the stillness. "You always suspected there was something more between him and her, didn't you?"

JJ nodded. "Less so, now I know what happened with Doyle. I'm not sure Emily has actually had more than a one night stand since she was undercover. And I don't think Hotch was one of her one night stands."

"Why not?"

"Hotch having a one night thing just doesn't seem right."

"JJ, he's a man. Sex doesn't have to be based on emotion – even for a woman it doesn't. It scratches an itch. Contact him tomorrow; ask him what his intentions are. Be honest about your concerns," Will stood up, looking at the sky once more. "There's thunder on the way."

JJ smiled at him, brought back to her own life by the simplicity of his prediction. "I love a good thunderstorm. Want to stay out here with me and enjoy it?"

His eyes returned to her. "Why not?" he said. "Enjoy every moment."


	7. Absolute silence leads to sadness

_Thank you again for the reviews. I'm still having trouble sending review replies – the site keeps telling me I have to wait five minutes until I send another review reply when I haven't even sent one! Grrrr!_

_Anyhows – I would LOVE some more reviews! There are loads of people reading – please delurk yourself and leave a review. You don't have to be logged in; I accept anonymous reviews!_

_Enjoy, and if there's enough interest, I'll update on Wednesday. There's still a oneshot of your choice for reviewer100!_

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 3**

"Absolute silence leads to sadness. It is the image of death." - **Jean Jacques Rousseau**

**Quantico, July 2011**

It had become a habit in remembrance of her. Flecks of skin were pulled away from his fingernails, creating stepmother's blessings and causing a pinkness that stung. His nails were bitten down to the skin and beyond and he knew he should stop the habit, which he was perfectly capable of doing – he'd broken worse habits after all. But this was in memory of her; his penance for not stopping her demise.

The cafe was quiet; only him and a man who looked as if he was on his way home from a night out were inside, drinking coffee that was bitter enough to be perfect, if you liked that sort of thing. Reid did, unlike Morgan who currently went for milky with two sugars.

He stirred the coffee, watching the whirlpool he was creating swirl deeper and deeper.

"You'll fall in eventually, you know."

It was a familiar voice; one tinged with sadness and uncertainty. He looked up at the owner. "Maybe that would be a good thing."

"Maybe you need to think about moving on." The owner of the familiar voice sat down opposite, pushing away blonde hair that used to remind him of JJ.

Reid stared at Seaver, feeling a bubble of resentment. "You wouldn't understand."

She shook her head. "Not entirely, no. I didn't know her as well as you, or work with her as long. But she wouldn't want you to become depressed."

"I'm not depressed."

"Then she wouldn't want you to look like you were becoming depressed. You have to accept what's happened, Spencer. We all do."

"Hotch hasn't. JJ's different. Morgan and Garcia spent all day yesterday whispering about something, and Rossi's become strangely unavailable since he disappeared yesterday evening. He even turned down the waitress' offer of a steak at her house." Reid knew that there was a petulant quality to his voice that was not endearing right now.

Seaver smiled slightly. "Maybe Dave's watching his health."

"And I'm having to practise memory techniques," Reid said, picking at his fingers again. "I feel that they know something and they're not telling me. Or each other. It's like everyone knows different things."

Seaver said nothing, which Reid took as an agreement.

"You're up early," he said, the whirlpool in his coffee having stilled. He noticed that she looked more worried than usual. "Is everything okay?"

She gave him a watered down smile. "I have a meeting this morning. I think I'm being asked to transfer to another unit."

"Asked?"

She nodded. "Asked. But if what I've heard is correct, I'll accept."

"What have you heard?"

"More about what we know already. Budget cuts – Prentiss' death hasn't put the unit in a favourable light – and the unit that they're meant to be suggesting would interest me," she said. "Anti-terrorism; but it's connected to the CIA."

"Undercover work?"

Seaver nodded. "It's something I've wanted to try."

"Even with what happened to Emily?"

"Maybe even more because of Emily." He saw her watching him, studying. He didn't respond. Reid wasn't sure he had even begun to come to terms with Emily's previous life as Lauren Reynolds and the relationship she'd had under that guise.

"Would you do what she did? Cross that line and get that close?" He knew his tone was accusatory even though he didn't mean it to be.

He saw that Seaver was thinking. Reid liked this about her; she would take the time to give a considered response rather than being rushed into an answer. "Maybe," she said.

The answer annoyed him. "How could you sleep with someone like Doyle? Knowing what he was..."

"I don't think it's as straight forward as that," she said, speaking quietly, slowly. "Prentiss was playing a role, a role in which she had to be convincing else her life would be at risk. The best way to play that part would be to allow the character to take over your personality, entering what would almost be a fugue state. She wasn't Emily Prentiss; she was Lauren Reynolds, and Lauren was in love with Ian Doyle. She had to be."

Reid didn't say anything, although Seaver's explanation made sense. He wasn't sure whether he was ready to consider it.

"What is it that's annoying you most?" Seaver said, after a long enough pause for her to finish her coffee.

Reid thought. "I never got to say goodbye," he said. "And she didn't trust me enough to tell me about it, any of us about it."

"Just because she didn't tell you doesn't mean she didn't trust you." Seaver stood up. "I should go. It's an early meeting. I'll catch up with you later."

Reid nodded, knowing that later he would feel bad for not wishing her good luck.

**Helsinki, July 2011**

Exhaustion came in many colours and shades, and the particular brand that Emily was feeling was green. A puce shade of green, with outlandish spots on them that made the eyes of any viewer dance uncomfortably. She felt tired to the bone, even though the night's sleep had been relatively calm. It wasn't proper sleep though; it had been plagued with dreams, perturbing dreams, involving missing trains and connections and feeling lost and confused.

For only the second or third time since her feigned death did Emily feel the fatigue that made her want to give up the run or the chase or whatever it was that she was meant to be doing. She wanted to be home, with her cat and a cup of tea, reading the papers and debating whether to order take out or cook. Making mundane decisions, rather than ones on which your life might depend.

She sipped the iced coffee and tried to relax in the uncomfortable metal chair that was close enough to the road for Emily to be having a side order of petrol fumes. Right now, Doyle could drive by and shoot her and all she'd feel would be relief and a hope that someone would clear up after her, pay the tab.

The waiter reappeared, giving her an appealing glance. He looked like a student trying to earn extra bucks for the summer, and he'd already been out a couple of times although she wasn't sure it was just an extra tip he was after.

"Would you like anything else, Madame?" he asked her in French, the language she had first ordered in.

"Not right now, thank you," she responded, giving him a pleasant smile. You had to always be suspicious, never trusting anyone until they had been thoroughly checked out by someone from MI5 or the CIA, and even then there was the chance that they had somehow slipped through a net. Still, he was cute.

For some reason an image of Ian Doyle flickered through her mind and she heard his voice. She turned around abruptly, causing the couple at the table nearby to stare at her. She regained composure quickly, fatigue overtaking fear. Doyle. Somehow she had lived with his memory for seven, eight years, managed to subdue it, block it, but never quite move on. How had she crossed that line? It hadn't been that difficult. He was an attractive man; intelligent; quick witted and decidedly dangerous. She remembered telling Hotch about the men she'd dated in the past, and how they been worse than Viper. She'd missed out that she'd already dated a sociopath, not wanting him to think her any odder than what he did already.

A car drove passed a little too quickly, Emily's brain making a mental note of the plate number without thinking about it. She needed to find a secure internet connection that she could hack into and check the various email accounts that had been set up to pass on information to her. Not that there had been much to be passed on in recent weeks. Doyle had gone to ground after her 'death', his henchmen with him. But she knew better than almost anyone else that it would only be a short while before he resurfaced; he wouldn't be able to refrain from seeking his son, and no doubt he would want to check that Lauren Reynolds was actually dead.

Emily pulled the small notebook computer from the oversized purse she was keeping close to her. The likelihood was there would be a business locally whose wifi she could hop onto, using a program that Garcia herself had designed for breaking passwords. Within a couple of minutes she was online, and making sure she wasn't being overlooked, she began to check the email accounts that she didn't access from her phone.

There was one message; left by someone she knew was in MI5 who went by the name Sooty, real name unknown. Real name always unknown. It was coded, directing her to a blog in which she would find another email account to check, in which there would be something that would throw a shard of light onto her situation. It took her another five minutes to locate the password and successfully open the hotmail account. There were a couple of emails welcoming her to the service, plus the one left by Sooty in the drafts box which had an attachment, that was password protected. She knew which one would be used; it was one that had been agreed months ago: _R34p3r_. Hotch's nemesis.

The attachment was long. She saved it into her documents, then deleted the email from the account, leaving another draft entitled _done._ Within the next couple of hours, Sooty would check and delete the account, erasing as much trace of her as he or she could. Disconnecting from the wifi, she began to read through the document, holding her breath as her eyes fed on the first lead they'd had.

Doyle was in Europe. He wasn't looking for Declan. He was looking for her.

**Quantico, July 2011**

"JJ."

"Derek."

He sat down, not waiting for an invite. Part of him felt as if he should be on his best behaviour, like he had been sent to see the principal knowing he was going to be in some form of trouble. He watched JJ as her expression began to show curiosity, then concern. She moved from her desk and sat on the chair opposite him.

"What is it?" Now she looked worried.

"I know about Emily," he went straight for the point. "So does Penelope. We figured Hotch has gone to see her."

JJ sat back, avoiding eye contact, looking defensive. She inhaled deeply. "You know it wasn't our choice to not tell you?"

"I would never think you would have feigned her death to hurt us, JJ. I knew it would be for hers and our safety," Morgan kept his tone quiet, soft. He did feel anger towards her and Hotch, but now was not the time to show it, it would achieve nothing.

"Then... why?" She looked exasperated now.

"Things weren't right. The team's fractured. There are still too many secrets. Hotch hasn't been himself for a long time, since her death – or rather since she disappeared. I had Garcia look into his business and once we found out he'd headed to Europe, I kind of put two and two together," he said, still watching her reaction.

JJ was silent, her face showing all shades of worry. Then she put her head in her hands and breathed deeply into her palms,

"I'm sorry. I should have asked you first, but I didn't know if I would get a straight answer. And you would have been in your right to have not given me one," he said, feeling a touch of guilt although he knew he had done the right thing.

"Is it just you and Garcia who've discussed it?"

"Yes. Although I suspect Rossi's known for a while. It's difficult to kid a team of profilers."

"Reid?"

"He's still too cut up about it to work it out. I haven't mentioned anything to him as I figured he'd be angry. You want to tell me what's going on? We might be able to help – you know how good Garcia is."

This time she nodded, her face softer. "I think it's best if you know as much as possible rather than just a little. Pick Garcia up tonight and come round to mine. We'll order take out. Tell Rossi, but don't tell Reid – I'll deal with him another time. Where is he, by the way?"

"Gone to an appointment. Kid's hiding something of his own. Around seven?"

"Around seven. Try to keep Garcia as calm as possible."

Morgan stood up and gave JJ a half smile. He could see she was close to breaking point. Maybe this had all happened at just the right time.

_Please review!_


	8. To dare to live alone is the rarest

_A/N – thank you for the reviews! Angel N Darkness – you were reviewer 100, so feel free to hit me with a prompt for a one shot. Greengirl52, I tried to review reply but it won't let me! Thank you to _schokokaffee, RockHotch, Joanne (!) and AllieRose

_I know most readers want to see Emily and Hotch together – and it will happen, but not for a bit. I have plans..._

_As for my other stories; apart from Colorado and Maybe Tomorrow they are complete. However, if someone requests that those two are completed I shall do so... Prompt/request available for reviewer 150..._

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 5**

"To dare to live alone is the rarest courage; since there are many who had rather meet their bitterest enemy in the field, than their own hearts in their closet."- **Charles Caleb Colton**

**Helsinki, July 2011**

The rain seeped onto Hotch's skin through the cotton of his shirt. It felt cold after a warm day during which he'd mingled with the attractions of the city, allowing himself to become a tourist but not to relax. He was jumpy, nervous; his eyes constantly on the lookout for Emily and Doyle. For some reason he'd thought he might see them together, hand in hand, but it had been a fleeting thought, one born from paranoia.

Dusty sunlight filtered through the rainclouds, catching droplets as they fell. The British Consulate stood behind him in all its glassy glory, the Finnish sky grey behind it. Emily was late, which was worrying. He hadn't heard from her all day, which shouldn't have been worrying as to contact each other wasn't always the safest move they could make. He'd spent the day preparing for her wrath, anger and annoyance, but all of that was tempered by the simple thought of seeing that she was safe and well. And alive.

He glanced at his watch then looked to the street corner, expecting to see her walking immediately round it. No one was there. His heart pounded a little, although he didn't analyse why. He didn't need any answers right now, not about that.

"You'd be a terrible spy."

He turned round abruptly, his heart beating faster than it should have been and so hard he wondered if Emily could hear it. "I suppose that's best left to you?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"How long have you been watching me?" he said as they began walking towards the sea.

"Actually, not very long. Two or three minutes. There were a couple of guys coming out of the consulate that I thought it would be better to avoid. You have a beard," she said. He felt her eyes on his face; his hand went up automatically to check the stubble. "Is it a disguise?" There was laughter in her voice.

"Maybe," he said. "Any excuse to not shave for a few days. Where are we heading?"

"Back to my hotel," she said. "Except we're taking the scenic route, so I hope you've still be using the gym in my absence. Hopefully we pass as friends having a leisurely walk. When we get to my room I'll pass on the information I received today, but before I do, I want to know why you're here? This isn't your case."

It was something he had been expecting; her questioning his motives, only there were several of them, and some he didn't want to go through. Not yet, not ever maybe. "You're still part of my team and I want you back in it. I'm a man down."

"You could easily replace me, Hotch," she said, pausing at the sea, looking out into the rainy blue. "There's no shortage of applicants."

He shook his head. "I can't let you live like this; being hunted. I'm good at my job, Emily. Let me do it. And besides, we'll catch him quicker with two of us."

She was quiet, her eyes not meeting his, and he took the chance to look at her properly for the first time in months. Her hair was darker, dyed. The bangs were gone, and besides looking a little thinner, she was pretty much the same as when he'd last seen her properly, before the weeks of misery in the run up to the whole Doyle case erupting.

She nodded, still not looking at him. Instead her eyes were fixed on the motion of the water. "I know you understand how it feels, because of Foyet," she said. "And I appreciate you being here, Hotch, but..."

"This isn't just your battle. Be glad it's just me here, and not Reid, Rossi, Morgan and Garcia as well. We know you were trying to protect us by not telling about your involvement with Doyle, but we know now... at least JJ and I do," he said, wondering if that was still the case. Morgan had asked a few too many questions about his vacation to just have been casually interested.

"Hotch," she said, turning towards him now. "You could have put me at risk by coming here."

"Hence the detour from St Petersburg?"

She glanced at the ground. "There was a elderly man there I played cards with. He was killed yesterday. I thought it might have been Doyle – it still might. Doyle's looking for me. He knows I'm not dead."

"How so?" Hotch felt his heart began to race once more.

"My grave was exhumed last night. There's no body in it as you know. We have to assume it's Doyle. And my contact at MI5 has informed me of two murders in Lodz, Poland, near to where Clearwater Security has recently set up an outfit under the name White River Solutions. My contact's looking into what they've been up to, but one of the financial transactions that they managed to see links an employee to being in the same hotel as me in Paris two days after I left. It's too much of a coincidence. I have no idea how close Doyle is," she rested against the railings. "We should walk. It's too quiet around here right now."

Hotch realised that darkness had descended on them, the rain having eased. "How well are your tracks covered?"

"Pretty," she said. "But neither of us can stay here more than tonight. My plan is to retreat, gather intel, then hunt him down. I suspect I'm still a step ahead of him, but probably only just."

"You think it's safe being here tonight?"

"I've switched hotels. I suggest you do the same," she said, her tone business like. "Probably move to the same place as me then we can go through a profile before you head back." She wasn't looking at him as she said the words, which made him feel all the more certain of what he was going to do.

"Does it put you in more danger if we work as a pair until Doyle's been caught?" he said, wanting to give her control. This was her territory, not his. She had been the spy, not him. But he had been hunted too and he didn't want her to lose as he had done.

The look in her eyes told him that she wanted to say yes, and something inside him sank. "I'm not sure. Seeing as you're here we may as well discuss it."

The rain started to fall again, this time with more venom, soaking them both to the skin.

...

The hotel she had opted for was next to the cafe where she'd checked her email that morning. Its decor was in need of an update, although Emily suspected that it may not happen as trade was clearly slow, and funds in short supply seeing that most people were staying in the bigger, branded hotels that were common to the majority of European cities.

She led Hotch straight up to her room, avoiding the eyes of the woman on reception who seemed too nosy for her own good. They were both thoroughly soaked; her vest top was sticking to her and she was pretty sure that her bra was doing little to conceal certain aspects of her anatomy. She folded her arms as she spoke to Hotch before opening the door.

"You know, it may be best if you don't go back for the rest of your luggage until tomorrow," she said. "There's no way we should stay here for another night."

He nodded, following her into the room.

"I need to get changed." She grabbed a bag that she had left in the room which contained anonymous items, unlinked to her bar size, throwing it in the bathroom. Before she followed it, she passed Hotch her laptop and told him the password for the document.

Then she locked the door and stripped off the wet clothing. The rain had soaked everything, including her panties. She stood there naked for a moment, looking at her reflection in the mirror as her skin dried, evaluating what she saw. She was nearly forty, but time had been kind. Nothing had started to sag; her skin had only the faintest of lines and good diet and exercise meant cellulite had pretty much passed her by. She was too thin though, her hip bones jutted out a little too much to be attractive and her stomach was flat rather than toned. Tears of rainwater fell from her hair down her breasts, tickling like the fingertips of a gentle lover. She thought of Hotch, probably sat on the bed, his mind focused on profiling Doyle, not thinking of her in the bathroom.

Why had he come here? Which responsibility was he scared of shirking?

She pulled on fresh panties, a dry tank top and sweats and opened the door back into the bedroom. Hotch was sat exactly how she visualised, his eyes fixed on the computer screen.

"He knows your alive and is hunting you. He's got too many men to not leave a trail and has already caused enough suspicion. His behaviour is different, he's showing signs of devolution," Hotch said, not looking at her.

"Realising I'm still alive for the second time may have been a trigger," she said, sitting next to him. She could smell his cologne, but it brought her no pleasure. It was a smell she had recalled several times throughout the past few months, thinking of home, the team, him. Him mainly. But here, he was on her territory, in her mess and she didn't want him pulled into it, yet telling him to leave would bring no success. "Doyle won't care now about being caught, he'll just want to finish me and find Declan."

"He'll want to use you as leverage," Hotch said, shutting down the laptop. "Do you think it's wise to find him?"

She shook her head. She'd had enough time to consider all of this. "I need to let him find me," she said. "But I need to set him up for it." She turned to Hotch and looked directly at him, into his eyes and didn't blink, wanting him to look away first.

He didn't, and the look was maintained with steel.

"I know you are used to living off your wits at the moment, but if we can have a firm strategy with this, and a clear profile of Doyle and his closest allies we stand a much better chance of making sure this is over with once and for all," Hotch said, his eyes unmoving.

"I agree," she said, carefully considering her words. "But that doesn't mean you need to be out here with me, Hotch. That puts two of us at risk." She watched his expression intently, seeing a flicker of annoyance cross his face. "Besides, I assume this is a vacation rather than an order."

"Have you spoken to JJ?" He asked a little too quickly.

She shook her head, then felt a stab of fear. "No – she is okay, isn't she?"

"She was when I left. I think this is starting to take its toll on her – and me," he said. "It's not just you who is living a constant lie, Emily, it's us as well. We've seen Reid go to pieces over your 'death' and haven't been able to tell him the only thing that would ease his guilt."

She sat back, his words stabbing her. "I didn't ask for this, Hotch. I did my job when I was with Doyle..."

"A little too well maybe?"

She ignored his comment, trying to let it wash over her. "I didn't want to get any of you hurt."

"Well you didn't succeed there, did you?"

She had never heard him so bitter, so harsh. Tears came too easily to her eyes, so she diverted them away from him and said nothing.

"I can easily be seconded to Interpol as a profiler. Doyle is still an open case. I just need to ask."

It was a threat, and one that she didn't want to call his bluff on. Doyle would find out that Hotch had been seconded, and then he would target the team. She moved off the bed and half collapsed into the worn chair, not caring to think what acts it may have seen in the past. "You know I can't you put them in that position. The rest of the BAU. Hell, I wouldn't even put Strauss in that position." She still didn't look at him.

"Then you need to let me help." He stood up, catching her eye as he always did. However unsmiling, however grim he could be, he still had a presence.

"We need to get out of here first thing," she said. "Doyle wouldn't expect me to know anything yet if he thinks I've gone completely underground, but he is on my tail. He'll get to Helsinki within hours of realising I've left St Pete's."

"What's your idea? You know Europe better than I, and I agree we need to retreat and plan."

"You have a couple of different passports?" He nodded. "Book a flight from here to Geneva; then under a different name from there to Florence. I will meet you at Ristorante Gillberto tomorrow night."

"From there?"

"Trust me."

He gave her a look that suggested he didn't.

"Hotch," she said, biting her lips together. "We need Garcia."

"Can your Interpol contacts not..."

"No. Truth be told, they're not as good as she is. I need to go completely off the grid. I've been thinking this for a few days."

"You still don't trust Easter?"

"I haven't heard from him for too long to remember. He's either dead, or he's disappeared. Neither would surprise me," she said, hearing fear in her own voice.

Hotch either didn't register it or chose to let it pass him by. "We're not travelling together?"

She shook her head. "Too risky. I suppose we should aim for the same flights – it would make things easier; but I was considering changing at Berne instead of Geneva."

"I'll do as you say regarding travel. I'm not sure about Garcia. I'll have to contact JJ first." He was at the door now, his clothes a little drier. "I'll go get my luggage and check in here."

She didn't respond, just stayed on the chair wondering which mouth of hell she'd fallen into now.

...

Please review. It only takes a few seconds. Pleeeeaaasseee...

And I might just update on Friday... or earlier...


	9. Consider what you think justice requires

_Long A/N ahead..._

_I feel the need to justify what you are about to read. Firstly, the second part of this chapter is a most definite M. Don't read if you are not old enough or don't like that sort of stuff, the second part anyway as the first part is safe. And secondly... trust me. Now, read the chapter and then the second A/N because I've just realised that if I carried on here I'd be spoiling it..._

_Thanks for the reviews by the way – I'd still like more. Delicate ego, you know..._

_Thanks to HotchityHotchHotch for the read through and discussion. Read her fics. And review :)_

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 6**

"Consider what you think justice requires, and decide accordingly. But never give your reasons; for your judgment will probably be right, but your reasons will certainly be wrong." – **Lord Mansfield**

**Quantico, July 2011**

Rossi pulled up outside JJ's house and admired the lawn. It had been recently cut; neat, straight lines made by steady hands with the mower, and not shaved too short either. He liked a well mowed lawn, although if he'd ever confessed that to Morgan, it would have been construed in entirely the wrong way.

He had an inkling as to what this was about, but had preferred not to show his hand just in case he was wrong and his suspicions raised hopes. She wasn't dead; he knew that. He'd been around for too long, been in the FBI for too long and had done his share of undercover work too long ago to be used as a way to pull women any more, but he still remembered. That was key, you see. You couldn't forget.

The door had been opened before he managed to press the bell, JJ standing there looking a little too thin. "Dave," she said. "Just waiting for Morgan to pick up Garcia from Kevin's."

"Reid's not here yet, is he? I didn't see his car," Rossi twisted his head to check he wasn't mistaken.

JJ shook her head. "He doesn't know about this. Not yet," she said, leading him down the hallway, through the kitchen into the sunroom.

"You think it's wise, keeping him out of something that involves him so much?" Rossi said. He would trust JJ's judgement – he would probably come to the same conclusions himself, but he wanted to hear her thought process, assuming that he was correct in why they were meeting.

"Why do you think we're here, Dave?" she said, opening a cupboard and taking out a bottle of whisky. "Are you going to stay over?"

"If it's okay with you and Will." Rossi watched her fill a tumbler; judging by the quantity she poured she was expecting a long night. "We're here because you're going to confirm that Emily's alive and tell us how we're going to help bring her back home."

"Did Morgan speak with you?"

"He didn't tell me anything, but it's an assumption I've had for a while. Why's Reid not here?" He took the glass.

JJ sat down, looking weary. "His frame of mind with the whole Emily at the moment makes it too risky. It's risky not telling him, and I can't leave it too long before I do, but if he knew I think he'd act rashly, without thinking and that could jeopardise both her and Hotch. I will speak with him at the end of tomorrow – he's invited over for dinner then."

Rossi nodded. "He hasn't taken the whole Emily thing well. I know it's difficult; it's difficult for us all, but he's the one who has been most personally hurt by her not confiding in us – or in him."

"She was his confidante. I don't know – it's tough Rossi. It's been awful keeping this from you all while Hotch and I know, and I always knew at some point I'd break, but..." she was interrupted by the door opening and Garcia's voice permeating the still, humid air. "She has a key," JJ muttered. "Sometimes it's useful, other times..."

"Hey," Morgan said, sitting down immediately. "Any word from Hotch?"

"Just a few minutes ago, actually," JJ said. "Henry's out with Will before you ask. They've gone to see Will's cousins who are up from Louisiana and I suspect they'll be back late."

Garcia sighed, looking bereft, but Rossi could see she was more anxious about things other than seeing her godson.

"You need to fill us in," Morgan said. "Don't bother about drinks for now – they'll keep till thinking time."

JJ looked at the floor, a hand pushing her hair away. It was a few seconds before she looked back up, glancing at each of them. "As you know, Emily didn't die. She recovered quickly and once she'd recuperated enough to fly she went straight to Paris. She has contacts, both inside and out of Interpol and as you know she's fluent in pretty much any language you care to mention. I met her three weeks after she was injured and provided her with passports and money in accounts set up in the five different countries of her passports."

"What was her brief?" Morgan said, sitting forward.

"To stay safe and keep her ear to the ground concerning Doyle. Emily doesn't know where Declan is. In fact, I think there are only two people who do, neither of whom are directly connected with the Valhalla case anymore. She was not instructed to go after Doyle on her own. There are other agents assigned to that; she was meant to inform them via her contact at Interpol," JJ took a breath. "She's currently in Helsinki, but Hotch tells me they're heading for Italy tomorrow. Doyle's picked up her scent, so I suspect she's heading off the grid while..."

"Stop there, JJ. You said _they're_ heading off to Italy tomorrow. Why is Hotch with her still?" Garcia said. "She is okay, isn't she?"

"As far as I'm aware she's fine. I'm not sure she's happy about Hotch being there, but he's made it impossible for her to say no."

"Why has Hotch gone over there?" Morgan said.

Rossi took another sip of the whisky and waiting for JJ's explanation. He had his own, of course, but he wasn't for revealing it just yet, if ever.

"I don't know," she said. "I've been thinking about it since he told me and it didn't make any sense then, and it doesn't now. I think he feels responsible for the predicament she's in; I think he feels he can help because of how he was hunted by Foyet; I think he has a superhero complex – I don't know. But he was getting so bad tempered about the whole thing that to be honest, guys, him not being around for a few days stopped me from trying to reason with him and suggest he might actually be putting Emily in more danger." She began to run them through more details, not wanting them to dwell too much on what Hotch's motivations might be, although she had stronger suspicions than what she had just listed. "Hotch wanted me to tell Garcia. I think they're going to need your help."

"On it already," Garcia said. "If Doyle has been in Lodz, and this is something connected with Clearwater, then I can hunt him down within a day. I've researched his previous spending habits and men don't change. They are creatures of habit. If I can borrow your study I can start now. Anything to bring her home."

"What's with Italy?" Morgan said as Garcia left the room. Rossi had known that she wouldn't stay there when there was active work she could do. He doubted he would be the only one staying the night.

"Emily spent a lot of her teenage years there. I imagine she has contacts outside of Interpol who can keep her underground."

"She's going to be used as bait to draw Doyle out," Rossi said. "And if she's not using Interpol, she's suspecting Doyle of having a mole."

"In which case she's using herself as bait. I know Emily – she will want to finish Doyle off herself," Morgan said. "What does Hotch want us to do?"

"Work a profile. He's going to be working on one with Emily. He wants us to go through what we know about Doyle already, and then we can compare," JJ said, standing up. "I think now would be a good time for drinks."

Morgan stood too. "I think I should go get Reid. We need him."

"Then how do we explain why we're all here already?" JJ said. "We can't predict how he will react."

"I'll tell him the truth. That'll be enough to sober him out of any rash actions," Morgan said. "And he's read everything we've had on Doyle, although I assume Garcia will be going through the classified stuff as we speak."

Rossi nodded. "I agree. You go get Reid. JJ and I'll get the drinks sorted."

He waited until Morgan had closed the door behind him before he next spoke.

"So, what's the real reason Hotch's has gone over there?"

...

Her flights were booked. Much to Hotch's delight she was on the same flights that he was, although they knew that they would be to all intents and purposes travelling separately. The hotel room seemed tainted and even more worn that it had a few hours before, representing her state of mind rather than any instant deterioration.

Emily slipped her feet into her sandals, grabbed her purse and headed out on the corridor, locking the room behind her. She needed something to help her grab a few hours sleep; to cope with the change in her circumstances and the knowledge that her adversary had raised his head in her direction.

There was no one on reception. Only a badly tuned radio broke the dying silence; dust dancing around a light shade that needed replacing. She stepped out into the late evening and made her way to the cafe bar next door, wondering if she should have told Hotch where she was heading, so he wouldn't worry if he knocked on her door later and found her not to be there. The worry annoyed her; she had become accustomed to fending just for herself, without regard for anyone else, however used to working in a team she had been.

She headed to the bar, sitting down on a stool and eyeing the liquor.

"Can I help you, madam?" the bartender asked, his tone droll and bored.

"Whisky with ice," she said. "A large one."

He nodded, disinterested, his eyes flitting to where two girls were sat gossiping the half darkness.

"May I join you?"

Emily turned suddenly, having not heard any footsteps behind her. The waiter who had served her this morning stood there, dressed in black jeans and a black shirt, setting off tanned skin with his blonde hair. He must have been half her age.

"Of course," she said, twisting around in her seat to give him her attention. "Have you just finished work here?" She fell into speaking Russian almost immediately, knowing it would be a more familiar language for him than English.

"A couple of hours ago; I've been helping go through the books. I'm training to be an accountant, so my aunt who owns this place often gets me to help balance things. What's your name?" A matching drink to hers was placed in front of him.

"Amelie," she said, keeping to the same name that was on today's passport. "Yours?"

"Jaako," he said. "What are you doing in Helsinki?"

"Business meeting," she said, taking a sip of her drink, feeling its burn slip down her throat, warming her, taking away that edge. "I leave tomorrow."

He smiled, showing perfectly straight white teeth. His eyes twinkled and she felt a rush of something other than the whisky glide through her. She couldn't. Could she? He was young, and a stranger who didn't even know her real name. And she was staying in a hotel with her boss, her ex-boss, who would surely disapprove of her even considering sleeping with someone so young and unknown...

Their conversation flirted around economics; the Euro; the US debt bill; all the topics that Emily knew were safe but interesting enough for a trainee accountant. He was intelligent with considered opinions and turn of phrase that suggested her was interested in more than just her ability to discuss the world's finances. She felt his leg brush hers and imagined what was underneath the denim. It had been too long since she had shared her bed with anyone other than herself and her imagination.

A clock struck eleven, bringing to mind that her flight was in less than twelve hours. "I'd offer you a night cap, but my room doesn't have a mini bar," she said, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders, a sudden rush of adrenaline making her feel as if she could fly.

There was that smile again. "Tahvo," Jaako said to the bartender. "Pass me the bottle of Kossu that's already open."

Tahvo didn't look impressed, but passed the bottle anyway. "Shall I write a note to let your aunt know you've taken it?" he said.

"You can do, if it makes you happy." Jaako stood with a slight swagger, a cockiness that responsibility had not yet erased. "Shall we go to your room? It would be nice to spend an evening away from my friend there." He eyed Tahvo who had returned to polishing the bar and watching the two girls.

"He seems rather stalker-like," Emily said, getting down from the bar stool. She knew the drink Jaako had asked for was fairly potent, a Finnish vodka that would do nothing to enhance the amount of travelling she was to undertake tomorrow. Still, she was well practised in the art of disposing alcohol and what she had consumed so far had made little affect.

"He is. I suspect he is still a virgin, although he did make a pass at my aunt once, then scarpered when she returned his interest."

He kissed her as soon as she had closed the hotel room door. It was demanding and hard, seeking pleasure that she knew he would take with only a cursory regard for hers. This wouldn't be her first one night stand; since Doyle there had been several – the chosen way to scratch an itch without the questions a relationship would pose about her past.

She began to undo the buttons of his shirt, feeling a chest underneath that was taut and muscular, smooth, almost hairless skin. As young as he was, she doubted he was inexperienced, but she was curious as to whether he had been with anyone as experienced as she. The kiss remained unbroken as she manoeuvred his shirt off his shoulders, exploring his mouth with her tongue. She could taste alcohol, whisky. Then his hands were on her hips, thumbs tucking under the waistband of her jeans, sliding round to the front and the button fly she knew would be awkward.

His lips trailed away, to her earlobe, her neck and she let him guide her to the bed on which she fell backwards, realising that he had indeed managed the awkward fly. He pulled away from her, removing her jeans but leaving her panties, which she knew would show signs of her wetness, and she took the moment to look at the firmness of his body; powerful arms and a defined stomach. She had never confused sex with love. They were two separate entities. If the two were combined it would be powerful enough, but she wasn't sure that she had ever had that combination. As Lauren, she had believed herself in love with Ian Doyle, but the sex had never satisfied her. Maybe because Lauren's body had only ever been truly Emily's, and that Doyle had simply not had what it took to please her in bed.

Jaako would not need much to please her tonight. She reached for his waist, letting her fingers run over his abdomen, feeling a burning in her loins, a primeval urge to be taken roughly, hard. There was no room right now for sweet tender lovemaking – that was something different. His cock felt thick as she brushed against it, enough to provide some satisfaction, to scratch that itch and her eyes lingered at his crotch, wanting to see.

He let her undo his jeans without interruption, watching passively. His underwear slipped off with them, and he stood confidently for a second. An alpha male. Her weak point had always been alpha males. Her mind wandered as he began to kiss her again, kneeling on the bed, making the mattress give slightly, and she thought about Hotch and whether he'd ever had confidence in his maleness, with his physicality, or if he had always repressed his sexual side. If he had one. Emily remembered her orgasm the previous night, of replacing her own hand with Hotch's. For a moment, it was not Jaako's hands undoing the buttons of her shirt but Hotch's, and as his fingers brushed against her breasts she moaned quietly, imagining it to be her old boss' instead, wondering if she would respond the same way to Hotch as she was doing to a stranger or if there would be more emotion involved, or passion, or heat. Competition. She'd always felt that she had something to prove to him; would that extend to in the bedroom as well?

Emily removed her bra herself, then let Jaako push her gently down onto the bed, his lips on her neck again, making their way south, one hand already cupping a breast, pinching the nipple. She let him do the work, guiding his mouth to her other nipple, the other hand slipping down to her panties pushing them down her leg and grazing a finger over her wet centre. She used a foot to rid them completely, aware of Jaako's skin against hers with nothing in between. Her purse was next to her on the bed, condoms inside. As she reached for them, she felt a finger push deep into her, heard the sound of the dampness there, followed by a slight murmur from Jaako before another finger found a home.

"Condom," she said, still in Russian. St Petersburg and Vitaly had made the language seem as comfortable as English, or French. For a second she saw stars as his fingers found a point inside her, her head tipping back, pushing her breasts against him.

"You put it on," he said, moving back a little, removing his fingers, making her ache even more to be filled. She saw him smile victoriously, probably at her flushed cheeks. She was close to coming already, and she knew he was taking the victory.

The condoms were buried deep within her purse, put there with hope she'd considered futile some weeks ago. It took less time to discard the wrapper and sheath him. Then she took the lead, manipulating him on to the bed and straddling him, his laugh echoing round the room as he took hold of her hips, but allowing her full control and she guided him into her, feeling him push at her sides as she clenched him with muscles that hadn't been used for too long.

She didn't take more than a minute. She'd used her fingers to help her along, but he'd pushed her hand away and used a touch that belied his years to take her over the edge and see the stars. Then he'd moved her onto her back and seized the power, filling her roughly with every thrust, his hands under her ass lifting her so he could go deeper, making her clutch the sheets beneath her and paint the walls with words in Russian and English and a coarse language that owned no dictionary.

He didn't hang around afterwards. He smiled as he did up his jeans, her eyes still feasting on his chest. "I'd stay," he said. "But you know..."

"I have an early flight," she said, not bothering to cover herself with a sheet, enjoying the fact that his eyes still hung onto her breasts, the desire in them making her nipples harden again. She was tempted to offer another round, but the clock was striking one and no doubt Hotch would be waking her early to finalise their plans.

"I may see you in Helsinki again, Amelie," he said, picking up the untouched bottle of Kossu. "We would have more fun."

She smiled, watching him head to the door. "Maybe," she said, knowing it was a lie.

...

There was no total darkness in the land of the midnight sun at this time of year and the curtains of the cheap hotel failed to create an atmosphere conducive to sleep, so Hotch decided that a brief walk around might help in seducing it. He found himself walking towards Emily's room, wondering if he should knock on her door, check that she was okay. He knew she would be, as okay as she could be anyway, but he wanted to try to begin to rebuild the bridge between them, to encourage the friendship that had began when she had stayed with him in the hospital room after Foyet's attack.

He paused as he reached her door, preparing to knock, but then he heard recognisable sounds of a party that he was not invited to and he knew that for tonight he would not be welcome, if any night. He paced slowly back to his room, knowing that sleep would evade him completely, for if he was to shut it eyes he would only tormented with pictures that would burn a painful hole within his chest unlike no other bullet.

_..._

_**A/N**_

_I haven't written any 'smut' before this story because I'd always left it up to the reader's imagination. However, I've always read a lot of it, and enjoyed it as long as it was well written and in character. HotchityHotchHotch were having a wee discussion about smut and how it relates to a story in general, or if it is basically just smut. It made me consider this fic – which is definitely different to my other HP stories as it's much darker, and I think, more realistic in terms of emotion. I know some readers are probably not happy that Emily just slept with someone other than Hotch as this is a HP fic (trust me...), but putting it in context – the poor lass is on the run, has fantasies about a man who she thinks is unobtainable, is very much in control of her own body and knows what she wants – why not take release where she can get it?_

_So why go into so much detail? Because I do think it opens up a window on the character and allows a reader (or viewer if we're being pervy here) to get a glimpse inside a state of mind. We then know where these characters have been. Hotch knows Emily's just slept with someone else, possibly taken a few risks given that the man she slept with could have been connected to Doyle in some way, and it's screwed with his head. That's going to be an excellent showdown at some point!_

_Anyway, I do hope you're staying for the ride. It's going to be a bumpy one, but hey, they're always the most fun ;) _

_**Please review – as you'll probably be able to tell from the length of this, I would dearly like your thoughts on this chapter!**_


	10. Confusion heard his voice, and wild

_A/N Quick update – I'll post again on Wednesday. Thank you SO much for the reviews and your support for the last chapter. Nothing graphic in this one, and hints of what's to come. I haven't had chance o do review replies yet – I will definitely do so for this chapter. _

_The promised one shot for Angel N Darkness is now up. It's called 'You Dropped a Bomb On Me' and will have a second chapter at some point. Please read and leave a review if you haven't done so already :)_

_I will do another oneshot for review 150!_

_Please review – the more response you receive the more motivation it is to write!_

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 8**

"Confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar Stood ruled, stood vast infinitude confined; Till at his second bidding darkness fled, Light shone, and order from disorder sprung." – **John Milton**

**Quantico, July 2011**

It only took thirty seconds of observation for Morgan to deduce that Reid wasn't at home. The curtains of his apartment were closed and a soft light seeped through the crack in between, but had Reid been inside Morgan knew the light would have been different. So where next to look for him? It was too late for playing chess in the dark, and Reid had already lamented the lack of semi-decent movies to be seen, which left the coffee shop where he sometimes met his fellow geeks to discuss Star Trek and the number 42. Morgan left his car and walked the couple of blocks, using the time to think of exactly what he was going to say to the boy genius that wouldn't cause him to begin a three hour lecture before getting irate, upset and irritating.

Morgan figured he'd better brace himself.

Reid was sitting in his usual corner with the guy who looked too old to have so many piercings and still be cool, and the girl with the weird hair who glared at Morgan every time she saw him, even though he was pretty sure he'd never slept with her. There was that one time when he had been a little worse for wear, and so had she, but that was a long time ago, and he was convinced nothing had happened, but then, maybe that was why she always glared at him.

"Derek," Reid said, noticing him immediately. "Is something wrong? Did I miss a call?" Reid stood up, checking his phone in a panic.

"No, pretty boy," Morgan said. "Everything's kind of good."

"So why are you here?" Reid said. "You've met Denis and Amanda before, haven't you?" Morgan figured Reid was trying out his best social skills as Reid would remember the dates and times of all their meetings.

"We've met. Nice to see you again," he acknowledged the geeks. They were nice people, to be fair. "You finished your drink?"

Reid nodded, looking at an empty large mug of coffee. "I hope this is something good, you know..."

"Just walk with me, kid," Morgan said quietly.

Reid gave a slight nod to his friends, who were clearly used to his disappearances without explanation, then caught up with Morgan who was already at the door. "What's this all about? You know, everyone was acted weird today. I figured it was because of Seaver transferring to a different unit, but that doesn't explain why you're here now..."

"Cool it for a moment, Reid and listen." Morgan stopped, turning to Reid face who looked younger than his years in his confusion. "I need you to hear what I'm about to say, digest it, understand it and react without emotion, because the last thing we need you to do is to stress about this."

"This is going to be something I'm not going to like, isn't it. And it's not that I'm going to have to room with Rossi on the next away case because of budget cuts," Reid sounded almost hopeful that it would be. Morgan wished it was.

"It's something you'll be happy about when you've had the time to think about it, and when you understand why it was done," Morgan said. He knew from seven years of working with Reid that if he was told how he would feel then that would be one of his first emotions.

"It could be a multitude of things, but I don't want to guess. Just tell me." He sounded impatient. Morgan knew he had bigged it up enough.

"Emily is alive. She's in Europe and Hotch has gone to see her."

Morgan waited for the bomb to explode.

"Emily isn't alive. I carried her coffin. I saw her buried..."

Denial. "But you never saw her buried and you never saw her in hospital. Neither did Rossi, Garcia or me."

"But JJ and Hotch did. They knew and they didn't tell us." This was the reaction he was expecting. "They let us think that she was gone forever. _She _let us think..."

Morgan unlocked his car and pushed Reid towards the passenger seat. Contained in a moving vehicle would mean he couldn't do anything rash, and by the time they were at JJ's Reid would have talked himself down.

The tirade finished five minutes before they'd reached their destination.

"I can't forgive her. I can't trust her," Reid said, his face stony, expression hurt. "She could have told me..." Morgan heard the pain in his voice and understood it. He knew Emily had been protecting them, but she should've given them more credit. However, those sorts of thoughts were going to do anything to remedy her situation right now.

"Reid, you have to get over those feelings right now. They can be dealt with later, when Emily is home. Then you can talk with her and hear her side. But for now we have a job to do," Morgan said, swinging onto JJ's driveway.

"Why didn't Hotch and JJ tell us?" Reid said. "Why did they know and we didn't? Any why is Hotch in Europe?"

"Too many questions," Morgan said. "And we don't have all the answers yet."

**Geneva, July 2011**

Her stomach flipped like a tossed pancake, the coffee doing nothing to abate her inner storm. Hotch was sitting two tables to her right, seemingly oblivious to her as he read a newspaper he'd picked up. They'd said nothing to each other that morning; in fact, he hadn't even made eye contact with her. She'd caught him glancing at her once, a strange look in his eye that suggested hurt, that she had upset in somehow, but it was a brief look, covered all too quickly by his usual stoic mask.

She was tired, exhausted even, and the prospect of being in Italy, in a small village that was almost a retreat was the only thing that was motivating her to hold it together. Hotch's appearance was confusing her more than she'd anticipated it doing. For months she'd held herself together; looked after herself; not needed anyone – just as she had done as Lauren. But now, someone was here who she could rely on; who she could trust to help her and look after her best interests.

Emily gave him a fleeting look. She wished now that had taken on the appearance of a couple, rather than two individuals travelling alone. He would have told her about JJ and Reid and Henry; the colour of Garcia's hair and Kevin's latest escapades. She missed them dreadfully; tiredness combined with the knowledge that she didn't have to keep it together all by herself brought tears to her eyes. She tried to blink them away.

"JJ told the rest of the team last night."

Emily jumped. She hadn't even heard his footsteps. Her heart thudded and her defences were drawn. She needed to be more aware.

"I'm sorry..."

"No," she shook her head. "I'm letting things slip. I was daydreaming – I should keep my guard..."

Hotch sat down at her table. "As far as I'm aware there is no one here who looks in the least bit interested in us; not even mildly. And I know I'm not a trained spy as you are, but I am a pretty okay profiler."

She smiled, her eyes tearing again. She didn't want him to see her cry. "No, this – I'm sorry Hotch, but I don't think this is a good idea. Maybe you should switch flights and go home. You being here is making me feel relaxed and I shouldn't – it's only going to be a matter of days before Doyle catches up with me and I need to be ready."

He nodded, and for a moment her heart sank. Did she actually want him to go? "You've undergone months of upheaval. You will not be at your strongest even if I'm not with you. At least you can have a couple of days to try and relax. Garcia's planning to stall him to give us more time. You have to trust us."

She forced a nod. Last night, her encounter, was now playing on her mind. Afterwards, she'd slept fitfully, having dreams that were too rapid to make sense of them as they occurred. In them she was sharing a bed with Hotch, bearing his weight on top of her as they made love; however, the scene changed, and instead she was with Ian Doyle, walking hand in hand up the aisle of the church she'd entered as a teenager, after she had been through the abortion.

"Emily," Hotch said. She wondered why he hadn't used her surname. "I won't think any less of you if you need to be a little less strong than usual. You've been through more than most people could stand, including me."

"You've already been through this Hotch," Emily said, managing to look at him now. He was sitting close enough to her for it to feel intimate. She figured it was one way of keeping their conversation private.

"I didn't have to leave my home or pretend to be dead," he said. "I think we should see if we can arrange it so we sit together on the next flight. At least you could sleep, then you'll be recharged enough for whatever it is once we've reached Florence."

She felt bad now for not having included him in on her plans. In fact, she was still amazed that he'd gone along with everything, letting her keep control, but she supposed he knew that was what he had to do, that he'd already profiled her. "There's a priest in a village called Console D'Elsa who ran a small retreat for monks and nuns. I contacted him a couple of months ago to ask for sanctuary should I need it – I knew him of old – and he agreed. We also made plans should I need to reach it covertly I just needed to get in touch with an agreed phrase in our conversation and he'd arrange to have me collected from a hotel the day after my arrival. I need to buy a disposable phone and send him a message. We'll be collected tomorrow morning."

"You can trust him?"

The question annoyed her. She wasn't so tired to be completely dumb. "With my life. Father Orazio knows nothing about Doyle. He was the person I turned to when things were really bad. We kept in contact sporadically throughout my life, although we never really discussed my job and I never confessed. He's old now, in his eighties, and has been living just outside Console D'Elsa for at least 15 years. I think it's one of the safest places I could be. We could be." She added the last with a slight glance to Hotch.

"Then we have to think about where to let Doyle think you are. You won't want to put Father Orazio at risk. How did you and he communicate?" Hotch said. An announcement told them it was time to board their plane.

"Letter, so nothing could have been intercepted. Once we're at the retreat we could have Garcia bounce a phone call our way." She felt something slip inside her, pride maybe, and her stubbornness waivered. She felt as if she had scaffolding to keep her standing for the first time in what felt like months. "How is Garcia? And Reid?"

"You'll see for yourself soon," he said. She saw his features soften and she fought the urge to let him hold her up physically while she broke down. "They're good. They've missed you. Reid especially."

"It's going to be difficult if I get to see him again," she said, unable to be certain about it.

"It will be, at first. But no harder than what you're facing now." He stood up, picking up both his and her hand luggage. "Doyle's men will be looking for a single woman. They won't pay any attention to a couple."

"What if they've been tracking you?"

"Garcia would have told me by now if they were. Let's go catch this plane."

She stood up, letting him usher her across the departure lounge and trying to keep it together, but the thought of being able to sit down, lean against someone even if it was for less than an hour, and close her eyes without the fear of waking up looking at Doyle's face made her feel just a little bit lighter.


	11. Only he that has traveled the road knows

Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter! Hope you enjoy this – I'd really like to hear your thoughts, especially as reviews were low for the last chapter. Fragile ego and all that!

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 9**

"Only he that has travelled the road knows where the holes are deep." – **Chinese Proverb**

Geneva- Florence Flight Path, July 2011

The turbulence Hotch could feel was not being caused by the air around the plane; the flight, in fact, had been a peaceful one so far, with few enough passengers so that he'd been able to move next to Emily and have a seat free next to him to stretch his legs if he wished. Emily had fallen asleep as soon as they had taken off, cocooned between him and the window. She'd used her sweater as a pillow, angling herself diagonally in her seat so she could stretch her legs and rest her head against the wall. He had so far resisted the temptation to ask if she had slept well the previous night, the noises that had come from her room scarring his memory. He should berate her, he knew. The man she was with could have been anyone, an associate of Doyle's, but he was pretty sure she would have thought about that beforehand. If he brought it up, then he would risk losing her trust, what little she had for him anyway, as it wasn't anything to do with him.

So why was he so bothered?

He glanced at her. Her hair was mussed and lacked the shine it had usually. Her face was thinner as he'd noticed the previous day, but aside from that, she was just as he remembered her, and he'd spent a lot of time remembering her: she'd become as much of an obsession as Foyet had.

Hotch put it down to his nature, his inability to let some things go. It was natural that he should want to protect the members of his team. He would have done the same for Reid, JJ, Derek – any of them, even Rossi. But something niggled him; he knew he wasn't being entirely honest with himself about why he was here, on this plane.

"Please fasten your seatbelts as we are about to begin our decent into Florence. Temperature is..."

He tuned out; the temperature wasn't significant right now. Instead he turned to his companion. "Emily," he said in a low voice. "Prentiss. We're starting to land."

She stirred drowsily. "Hotch," she said, the consonants not completely formed. "I'm not ready to wake up."

A sudden jolt of the plane made her groan and sit upright. "Sorry," she said. "That was the deepest sleep I've had in a while."

"That's understandable," Hotch said. "Hopefully they'll be chance for you to catch up further."

She sat up, inhaling deeply, keeping her eyes closed. It was the first time he had seen her vulnerability, the wash of tension that flooded her body. She was strong; he'd always known that. Colorado had proved it beyond doubt. The fact that she'd kept the Doyle case to herself to protect the team only illustrated the depth of that strength. But so long on the run, suppressing who she actually was would take a toll on anyone, even someone like Emily.

"This will all be over soon," he said. "You'll be able to go home. JJ's made sure your apartment has been maintained – don't worry, there's no way Doyle would have been able to track her or anyone else down because of it."

"It might be over soon with a different ending," she said, looking at him with eyes that were full of fear. "You've seen what Doyle's like, Hotch. And he's not alone."

"If the intel we have on him is correct then Doyle's pretty much on his own. You've become his obsession, and it's an obsession that's not supported by any of his henchmen. They appear to be involved in something else that's going down," Hotch said, keeping his voice low. "Emily, _when_ you're back home will you consider rejoining the BAU? We've missed you."

She looked at him, her expression unreadable. "Hotch," she said. "I can't think beyond the end of today. Even considering what I want for dinner tonight is a push. I've been living on my wits for too long to be able to consider any other sort of life right now."

The plane jolted as landing became imminent. "I understand. What we need to do is to let you have some time to unwind, and I know right now you don't feel as if that time is available, but Garcia will make it so. Then we need to plan and profile Doyle. We go about this like any other case."

"You hate having an unsolved case, don't you?" There was a note in her voice that made him feel as if he was being accused of something.

"Not really," he said. "I know that we won't solve every case. But this one we can end. Then you can get your life back."

She looked away from him again, falling back into her seat as the wheels of the plane hit the ground. "What life, Hotch? What do I return to? I've no family, other than my mother who is distant at best. I had a job, but no real life outside it."

"You have your friends, the team." He knew she was fragile, that this low emotional state was due to exhaustion and pressure. "You love your job, your home and your freedom, and there's nothing to say that you won't have a family in the future."

She cast her eyes to the window, away from him. "The team won't be the same, Hotch. Reid will never trust me the same way again, neither will Morgan. I haven't been able to have a long term relationship because of Doyle – you know that. In the five years you've worked with me, you've never known me date the same guy more than a handful of times."

"Why is that?" he said, not denying that he did know.

The plane came to a standstill. "Because, I don't know. I don't want to make a comparison between Doyle and whoever I'm with. Life with him, as Lauren, wasn't that bad. I managed, you know. Lauren was in love with him, but I wasn't. I could compartmentalise, but sometimes bits fall out of those boxes."

"Ending Doyle will give you peace of mind. Then he can become just another relationship you once had when you were a different person. We all have to try to move on, Emily," he said, undoing his safety belt.

"And how well did you do that, Hotch? You dated much since Haley?"

He said nothing, standing up and grabbing their hand luggage. "We need to check into a hotel, preferably one with a good restaurant." He wasn't going to get drawn into that discussion; not now and maybe not ever.

The whiteness of the sheets reminded her of clouds on a warm spring day, her body sinking into the sheets and pillows. She could barely keep her eyes open. Even the thought of Hotch sitting at the table in the next room, messaging Garcia, was failing to keep her more than semi-conscious. "He'd booked them into a suite, an expensive one with two bedrooms and a lounge with a TV, desk, everything that a business man with more money than sense would need. Then he'd locked the doors and told her to arrange their pick up for four the next morning, after that, she was to sleep, relax, forget for a while, a few days at least, and leave it to him and the rest of the team.

She'd given up the idea of fighting him. Fighting Doyle wasn't something she was in a fit state for; everything seemed to be catching up on her, even the wound that had now healed where he'd stabbed her was starting to ache, a psychological reaction rather than physiological. Her eyes closed, senses began to shut down, except for her hearing.

Hotch's voice rang round her ears, even though he was purposefully trying to keep it low. "She's fine," she heard him say. "Tired, exhausted, but she's fine and she will be fine. How's Reid taken it?" There was a pause and Emily wondered who he was talking to. "It will take him time to get his head round it. That's to be expected. Just keep him occupied. Can you pass me to Garcia?"

She figured it was JJ.

"Any idea on where he is?"

Another silence. Emily pulled herself off the bed and walked into the lounge. Hotch glared at her instantly. She sat down on the plush sofa with a lack of grace her mother would have reprimanded her for. "Can you put her on speaker?" she said.

There was that glare again. "Garcia, I'm putting you on speaker so Emily can hear."

"Emily – it's so good – sorry Hotch," Emily smiled at Garcia's exuberance that was only stifled by Hotch's presence. "Doyle's still in St Petersburg. He's using the alias Gaius Gene Brown, but he slipped up in a shop where he was buying jewellery. Long story and one you don't need details of. He has two friends with him, neither of whom have been associated with him before, but both of whom have rap sheets as long as Reid. I'm creating an identity for Emily that I will put Doyle onto, no doubt he will start to track her using that. Where would you like me to send him?"

_To hell_, Emily thought, biting her lip. "London and Ireland," she said.

"It's so good to hear my little chick's voice. London and Ireland are no problem at all."

"It will screw with his head if he thinks I've gone to Kilkenny – he and Lauren had a weekend away there once," Emily said, pushing thoughts of that weekend into a box that was going to say locked until she could burn it. "Give him five or six days of playing cat and mouse, Garcia, then have him come to us."

"Can you not get someone else to take him down?" There was a hint of panic in Garcia's voice. "It's not just you in this."

"We don't know who is safe to trust anymore. It's more than probably that Doyle has a mole," Hotch said. "Thank you, Garcia. If you could arrange a call with Rossi later that would be good. I'll want updating on what the team has profiled so far."

"Gotcha," Garcia said. "And Emily – we're going to make sure you're okay. You won't be dying on us again."

"Thanks, Garcia." There was nothing more she could say, what she needed to say had to be done face to face, when they weren't concerned about a secure connection and time was plentiful.

"You should use this opportunity to sleep," Hotch said, looking up at her from his laptop. "Everything will seem better once you're not as tired."

"Is that what you tell Jack?" she said, managing to smile.

There was a flicker of a smile back. "Only because it's true. I'm sorry – my talking must have kept you awake. I should have done it in the other bedroom."

"It's fine, Hotch. It was good to speak to Garcia. I'd like to speak with Rossi later as well," she said. It was taking all she had to not slur her words, the tiredness was that overwhelming. "I might sleep here anyway."

"Is there something wrong with your room?"

"No. It's just nice to have company. Especially as I don't have to constantly be on guard with you," she said, knowing she would never admit this if she wasn't so exhausted.

Hotch left the desk, and Emily wondered if she'd said too much. He would possibly still be her boss, and she knew he liked to keep them at a distance to a certain extent. She had just closed her eyes when he reappeared, a blanket in his hands. "Put this over you. Otherwise you'll wake up feeling cold."

Instead of letting her take the blanket, her put it over her instead, taking a care she imagined was reserved for Jack. "Hotch," she said, blinking back tears.

"Prentiss?"

"Thank you." Then she let her eyes close and finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

He closed the laptop and exhaled deeply, smothering a yawn even though there was no one awake to notice it. His eyes fell back on Emily, as they had been doing for the past ninety minutes. She was sleeping soundly now; her breath was even and deep, her face smooth and without expression. She looked tranquil and part of him took pride in being responsible for that as he had helped take some of the weight from her shoulders.

Hotch knew he shouldn't be staring for many reasons, but he didn't want to look away just yet. He was surprised by how much he'd realised he'd missed her and the myriad of other emotions that were bubbling up to the surface. He left the desk and made his way over to the sofa, a large corner one that Emily was occupying one side of. He took the other, spreading out, his head perpendicular to hers and allowed himself to fall into a sleep that was anything but dreamless.


	12. Italy, and the spring and first love

_A/N - Here's the next chapter. Sorry I haven't replied to reviews; I'm in an internet cafe at the moment, and not had any access hence the lack of them! Lots of chance for undistracted writing though!_

_Thank you to Lily Moonlight for the beta on this! Check out her CSI:NY stories. I'll update when my craving for feedback has been satiated._

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 10**

"Italy, and the spring and first love all together should suffice to make the gloomiest person happy." **– Bertrand Russell**

**Quantico, July 2011**

"If you don't stop pacing you'll be sued for a new carpet. Or I cancel all your debit cards." Garcia glared at Reid with something akin to venom, only it was her, and she'd never actually be that mean to the poor boy genius. "I cannot concentrate while you are in my lair, in that mood. Either snap out of it, or go bug Morgan."

"He's already threatened me with certain death if I go near him for the rest of the day," Reid said, not ceasing his pace.

"What did you do?"

""I wouldn't like to say. You have the ability to hurt me in more ways than Morgan and repeating what I said to him may have a similar effect on you."

She rolled her chair away from her desk and spun round, frowning. "Does Rossi not want a little company?" she said, knowing that unless Reid disappeared soon she was unlikely to get the work done that she was meant to, let alone move onto what else Hotch had asked her to do in his absence.

"Rossi's out giving a talk to some cops somewhere."

"Maybe he needs a little help. I know your jokes can steal the show sometimes," she said, trying to be positive and only ending up lying through her teeth. "Look, Reid. I get your angst; I understand how you're pissed at Emily and it's going to take you some time to get over it, but at this very point in creating your history, you need to pull yourself together and get over it. I'm sorry to cutting, but I do not have time for anyone's melodrama other than our friends in over in Europe."

He looked even more hurt now, and Garcia began to feel bad. She stood up, pushing her chair back under the desk with dramatic force.

"I know, Garcia. I know I have to put my thoughts on hold, or get rid of them altogether, and I do want to do what's needed to bring her and Hotch home safely, but that doesn't mean I can compartmentalise what I feel. I don't understand why she couldn't tell us; why Hotch and JJ couldn't either. It's not like we would have put them in any danger. Hell, we could have had them home before now if we'd known."

Garcia inhaled deeply, still standing, her hands on her hips. "I know," she said. "I totally get where you're coming from, and I feel the same. I could've done so much if I'd only known. I could've helped Emily out, made things easier for her, but I guess there was the chance it could have left a trail."

"So how are you handling it? I couldn't sleep last night for thinking over everything; trying to work out what to do, or how to deal with myself or how I should act when Emily's home – if she comes home," Reid said, his tone melancholic.

"Let's go get coffee, then you can help me make the time up that you're stealing," she said, guiding him out of her lair towards the small kitchenette. "I don't know how I'm handling it, Spence, or even if I am. I guess I don't think as much as you." No one was in the kitchenette so she closed the door behind them, switching on the kettle.

"I'm not sure it's about the thinking, although it would've been nice to have had some sleep last night," Reid said, automatically getting mugs out from the cupboard. Garcia didn't reprimand him for using Hotch's superman mug for her tea. Some things needed to be let go.

"Sweetie," she said, stopping the kettle when she realised it was boiling dry. "I doubt any of us got enough sleep last night. I know JJ hasn't slept properly for about five months – she's carried worries about Emily along with guilt about not telling us. Both Morgan and Rossi spent the night looking through all the information we have on Doyle and his associates and I patrolled cyberspace searching for his presence. Sleep is not always an option for us, chickadee."

Reid stared at nothing, not appeased. Garcia wished for the millionth time that Emily was here and could deal with him; she seemed to be one the few people to connect with him on a higher level. "Reid," she said, almost urgently. "Pretend I'm Emily. What would you be saying now?"

He looked at her, frowning. "But you're not Emily, Garcia. What purpose would this serve?"

"That's why I said pretend," she said, ignoring the kettle that was now boiling away happily Did she fill it?.

"Okay," he said, starting to think. "Why didn't you tell me about being undercover with Doyle?"

"Now pretend I'm you, and you be Emily. What would Emily say?" She wasn't sure if this would work, but it was a kind of technique she had learned when she trained to be a counsellor.

"This is kind of weird," Reid said. "And the kettle's boiled."

"No coffee till you've played along."

"Fine. What would Emily say? That Doyle's packaged up in a box inside her head, and there was never any reason to undo it. It was part of a past that has had nothing to do with the moulding of her as person."

"Good. Be Reid now. What else would you ask?"

Garcia noticed his shoulders relax a little, some of the weight starting to lift. "Why didn't you tell us about Doyle when it became relevant to the case? And I know her answer already," his eyes showed his sadness. "Because she didn't want us to judge what she'd done. She overstepped the mark with a suspect, justifiably if it was to keep her from harm, but maybe the answer was more complex than that, that she saw the good in Doyle too, and had fallen in love with him as Lauren."

Garcia turned away from him, pouring the kettle slowly to gather her own thoughts.

"If you were Emily what would you want to do now?" she said, still keeping her back to him as she squeezed her tea bag, infusing the strawberry and loganberry into the water. She wasn't sure she wanted to know his answer.

"End it," Reid said. "Finish Doyle. She must have been working under the supervision of someone, or at the very least, reporting to someone for the past few months, and we know her brief was to stay safe and not hunt him out unless the opportunity presented itself. Knowing Emily she'll have wanted to get off the grid to be able to finally catch up with Doyle and finish him for good. Only then can she move on."

Garcia nodded at his logic, passing Reid his coffee. "Doyle's hidden himself. It's only now that he's become visible and that's only because he's slipped up. The alias he's using is a new one. I need to find out what he was using before and see what creepy stuff he's been up to in previous months."

"Can I help?" Reid said. He still seemed thoughtful, but no longer as agitated.

Garcia nodded. "As long as you promise to sit down instead of pacing up and down. And think of names – what names would Doyle have chosen?"

Reid opened the door, a swift gush of air filling the kitchenette. "I can think of a few already."

"Following you, boy wonder," Garcia said, taking a box of donuts that had been left by someone who was now bereft of their sugary treat.

**Florence, July 2011**

Knowledge that she wasn't alone woke Emily, the sense of a strange presence in the room making her sit bolt upright and feel around for her weapon. It was only when she opened her eyes fully that her heart rate dropped to normal and she abandoned her search, the most recent memories she had filtering back to her through the haze of a deep sleep.

She sat up, fixing her stare on the coffee table in front of her, bars of candy spread temptingly in front of her, a sandwich wrapped up so it wouldn't go stale and bottles of water that had been cold. She drank first, emptying half a bottle, feeling the wet saturate her throat. Then she attacked the candy, needing a quick fix before she considered the person who had sourced all this for her.

"You're awake?"

She looked up, realising that she had jumped and that her heart was thudding again.

"Sorry – I didn't mean to startle you," Hotch said. He was wearing sweat pants and an old FBI t-shirt. She figured he hadn't been out of the room dressed like that. In fact, she had never seen him look so casual before.

"I guess I'm a little on edge," she said, knowing it was an understatement. "Thanks - for getting all of this." She gestured to the food. "How did you know?"

He laughed as he was meant to. "I haven't forgotten what you're like when you wake up. I've made us reservations at the hotel restaurant for nine. I hope that's okay, and you don't kill your appetite."

The way her stomach was rumbling she figured she could eat the best part of a farm and still take seconds. "No, that's great. What time is it now?"

"Seven forty-five. I was going to wake you at eight as I'm expecting Rossi to call. You need me to get you anything?"

She shook her head, tipping it back to take in more water. "I'm good, thanks. You spoken to Jack?"

He nodded. "Briefly. Jessica's taking him on vacation with his cousins to Disney World for a fortnight so that was all he could talk about. I guess it's good that he's not missing me."

There was a note of self-depreciation in his voice that Emily let go. She felt bad enough already that he was here because of her; that the team were worried because of her; that they would probably be in danger because of her. The list could go on. "He'll enjoy himself, Hotch," she said. "And he'll enjoy telling you all about it. And one day you can tell him about your trip to Florence and how you didn't see anything of the city at all because you were too busy saving a damsel in distress from a horrible dragon." She stood up and wandered to the window. They were at the top of the hotel, the room affording them a view of the entire city. Emily adored Florence, and felt a nuance of sadness at not being able to enjoy its pleasures.

"They'll be another time," Hotch said, an eyebrow raised. "And you're not what I would consider a damsel in distress. More like a warrior woman who needs refuelling." She saw him give an eye to three decimated candy bar wrappers. "I'd be sick if I ate so many so quickly."

"So would most people," she said, opening a fourth. "You want one?"

He shook his head. She didn't think she'd ever seen him eat candy. He preferred savoury over sweet.

"If we weren't in the situation we're in, we could have gone to Gilberto's," she said, managing to remember to not talk with her mouth full. "They do the best calzone."

"That doesn't make things better," Hotch said. "And I do think it best if we stick to the hotel. Garcia is adamant that you – we – are in no danger in this area, but I think it best if we're not seen or remembered by anyone. She's intending to remotely check security cameras in the area to make sure we're not recorded and on view for Doyle."

Emily nodded. "He won't think of doing that himself," she said. "It's only if one of his employees has any computer knowledge and the guts to suggest it that he'll look at remote camera footage. He's still stuck in the dark ages when it comes to technology."

"He mayn't be now, Emily," Hotch said. "It's more than seven years since you knew him well."

It sounded like a euphemism. _She knew him well._ She knew him carnally. She had agreed to marry him, although she'd known she would never have gone through with it. "Leopards don't change their spots, Hotch and Doyle won't change his. He's an alpha male. They find habits hard to break." She eyed him accusatorily.

He didn't take the bait. "Still, we'll stay as risk free as possible."

She nodded expecting nothing less. Florence looked beautiful. Its spires were lost among low cloud, a milieu of miniature cafes and bars with outdoor seating seeming like a child's playthings. The sunset played around the clouds, colours Michelangelo would have been proud of. Somewhere a church clock struck eight and Emily found herself holding her breath, waiting for Hotch's cell to ring, and for Rossi to be there.


	13. Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are

_A/N Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter! The next four chapters are already written, and do include some smut. I was writing the smut sections on the train on the way back from Cornwall, and a woman diagonally behind me was doing her very best to see! That however is in a few chapters time._

_Please enjoy and review – delurk yourselves and let me know what you think – it doesn't take very long!_

_Thank you to Criminal Musings for the beta!_

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 11**

"Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave."  
><strong>- Rainer Maria Rilke<strong>

**Quantico, July 2011**

Something, certainly not his common sense, had led him to invite the rest of the team to his house for dinner and the chance to work together to build a profile of Doyle and the two associates Garcia had identified as being his almost conjoined bodyguards. He had left the melee of the dining room to grab some quiet time to think while he loaded the dishwasher and bemoaned the fact that Morgan's appetite meant there wasn't enough moussaka left for the following day. That day had been a long one; no one had slept much the previous night and everyone was full of questions that weren't going to be answered any time soon. Rossi had a few of his own, different ones to those of Reid and Morgan and Garcia.

"Escaping, Dave?" JJ entered the kitchen with a couple more plates.

"Just about," he said, glancing at the doorway from where he could hear Morgan and Reid entering yet another disagreement about Doyle. "You spoken much to Hotch since they landed in Florence?"

JJ put the plates down with a slight bang and gave him a look containing more concern that usual. "I spoke briefly to him this afternoon. He called to ask for some details on Emily to be sent to him; specifically information held by Interpol and her role for them."

"He's profiling her?" Rossi said.

"I guess so," JJ said. "I suppose he has to. He will need to plan her reaction to Doyle, considering what state of mind she's in now after so many months on the run. Emily could put him – Hotch – in danger."

Rossi stopped what he was doing for a second and thought, weighing up what he knew about Hotch more than Emily. "He's double checking himself," he said finally.

"What do you mean?"

"Something I've thought for a while." He looked at JJ, wondering whether to share his musings. "I've wondered if Hotch felt something more for Emily than besides just being her friend and colleague. His behavior over the past few months has reinforced what was a vague theory; especially with him leaving like this to go to her. If Hotch was being Hotch-like, he would have taken the whole team with him. Although I think we should plan to go there anyway."

"Seriously?" JJ said. "On the latter I mean? I've figured the same about Hotch and Emily, although I doubt she will accept any feelings he has for her."

"You've spoken to her since she's been away," Rossi said, using the team's euphemism for Emily's feigned death. "What's her state of mind like?"

"Low," JJ said. "But she's a born survivor. She's cocooned herself in this idea that she can only rely on herself and no one else."

"That's a spy's mentality. You live on your wits and no one else's. But Emily is highly intelligent, intellectually and emotionally. She will know when she can give in a little. Whether she wants anything more with Hotch is something else, though she's clearly attracted to alpha males – we know that because of Doyle." Rossi closed the dishwasher and switched it on, the minimal noise proof of the unreasonable amount of cash he had paid for it. It was cheaper than a fourth divorce though.

"She's always had an eye for him," JJ said. She looked uncomfortable having this conversation and Rossi figured she was on the verge of breaking a confidence. "How much of an eye I don't know because their relationship has always been friendly-professional."

"So she's commented on what he'd be like in bed?" Rossi said. He saw no reason to beat around the bush. Life was too short as they knew.

JJ raised her eyebrows and gave a slight nod. "I guess that sums it up."

"He would have gone there if she had given him a sign," Rossi said. "Hotch is fastidious when it comes to the rules but he's broken that one before."

"Kate Joyner wasn't a member of the team," JJ said.

"True, but if Hotch wants something enough, and there are more positives than negatives, then he will go with that. You know, JJ, he effectively chose his job over his son having parents who were together. That's a big choice. He does see the overall picture. If he thought a relationship between him and Emily would make them happier than not having one he would have gone for it, should she have shown her interest," Rossi said. "But he would never have broached the subject with her unless she had given him cause to."

JJ leaned back against the kitchen cabinets. There was no hint of a smile about her face and Rossi knew the toll the past few months had taken on her. "He may have gone looking for something he's not going to get," she said. "Emily will not be in any frame of mind to be involved with someone; she'll want to reassert her own sense of identity. If something happens between them while they are in Italy then it might not have a happy ending for either of them personally."

"But they would both get over that. I know Emily was – still is – going through the wringer, but she's resilient JJ. She spent over a year playing the part of Doyle's lover and survived. We have to remember that. Remember Colorado?"

JJ nodded. Rossi knew none of them would forget that.

"She took the beating knowing that if Reid confessed to being the FBI agent he would most likely have been killed. Her concern wasn't for herself then, not because she doesn't value herself, but because she knows who she is. Emily's tough, JJ, maybe even tougher than Hotch."

There was another nod, JJ's eyes staring at one of Rossi's dogs who was running about outside. "She was the one who looked after Hotch after Foyet's attack, and continued to do so after Haley's death. She's always been the one to find that little bit extra."

There was a loud shout from the dining room, followed by what sounded like a wail from Reid. "We'd best sort the children out," Rossi said. "And I need to call Hotch."

"You want the whole team in this one?" JJ said. "Garcia can fix it up."

"No, not this time. I'm hoping to speak with Hotch without Emily there for part as well. I imagine we'll speak again later on in the night," Rossi pulled a bottle of whisky from a top cupboard and studied the label. "This was an expensive gift to myself a few years back. Now might be a good time to sample it."

* * *

><p>His phone ringing before he was expecting it to startled Hotch and caused a brief wave of panic. He answered as soon he mind registered that this friend not foe, and more or less safe to converse.<p>

"Hotch," he heard as soon as he'd answered. "Is Emily about?"

"She's in the shower, Dave," Hotch said. "She does want to speak to you though, so you may have to hang on a while if we run out of things to say."

"Was that humour?"

Hotch laughed quietly, sitting down near the window, looking out over the city that was sinking into sunset. "You called early.""I was hoping to get you on your own. I want to know why you absconded like you did. It was out of character. What is it you're hoping to achieve?"

Hotch wished he hadn't answered, although he had expected this from Dave at some point. "To bring Prentiss back home safe and resolve Doyle."

"Prentiss – not Emily?"

"What are you getting at, Dave?" Hotch sighed, hoping that Rossi would pick up on his impatience.

"You haven't followed your usual protocol, which would have been to have involved the team from the start and gone out there together. I think you want to be her knight in shining armour and save her the way you couldn't save Haley."

"That's not true. Emily is nothing like Haley, and if she thought I'd come out here to _save_ her as you put it, she'd sooner be on her own. I figured it was time this was ended," Hotch said, the words ringing hollow even to himself.

There was a brief silence, followed by a deep sigh. "So are you telling me, Aaron, that this isn't personal?"

"Of course it's personal. Prentiss is one of my team members and someone I consider to be a friend. If you're asking me if it goes beyond friendship then the answer's no, of course it doesn't," Hotch said, the words still without substance.

"Be careful, Hotch, because I'm not sure you know exactly what you're getting yourself into here," Rossi said.

Hotch turned around, not listening to his next sentence, suddenly aware that Emily was standing behind him, her hair damp from the shower she'd just taken, wrapped in a white bathrobe. He couldn't stop the thought that suggested she wore nothing underneath, followed by the realisation that she had probably heard the last thing he had said. There was an odd expression on her face, one he couldn't read, but one he knew would haunt his thoughts for the next few hours, days maybe, trying to analyze it. "It's Rossi," he said. "I'll pass him to you."

He gave her the phone, then returned to the window, keeping himself occupied by watching the people walking around beneath the hotel. He listened into to Emily's half of the conversation, wishing he could switch his hearing off so he didn't feel so intrusive. She told Dave nothing he didn't know already, but she sounded lighter, pleased to hear from him, more pleased than she had been when she'd spoken to him. He recognized what he was feeling as jealousy and tried to dampen it. That wasn't why he was here.

"I'll put you on speaker," Emily said, signifying the end of their catch-up. Hotch joined her on the sofa, keeping an appropriate distance.

"What have you managed so far?" Hotch said, wanting to get this out of the way as soon as possible so that he and Emily could get some proper food. She looked as if she had more colour in her cheeks now that she had slept and showered; less pale.

"I've managed to not kill Reid, although by the sounds of things Morgan's struggling to do the same," Rossi said, a loud shout in the background proving his story. "Doyle's been using three different aliases, or so we think: Laurie Smalley, Patrick McKinsey and Dean Stowers. Laurie is the newest alias – he appears to have a minion who is able to create online histories, fake financial records etcetera..."

"The other two names are combinations of his team that died in his service," Emily interrupted. "Patrick Mulliner, Sean McKinsey, Dean Jeffries and Seamus Stowers. They were all killed by agents."

"So he's hiding himself, but making sure if Prentiss saw any of those names she'd know he was on her case," Hotch said, purposely using her surname. "He's wanting to torture her."

"We think that's the case. A few other details: he's spent at least four months in County Derrybut we don't know why. He's been flying out to several of the ex USSR countries, which we assume is to do with arms trading, but that's ceased in the past two months –since he's found out that Emily was still alive," Rossi said. "Garcia's found out information on the two guys who are with him. We're hanging round at my place trying to profile them so we know what we're up against."

Hotch glanced at Emily as Rossi said 'we're' to gage her reaction. He knew that she had been adamant about the team not being involved in the past, but he thought that may have changed with the realization of her own exhaustion.

"Thanks Dave," Hotch said. "We'll call you later. I'm not even going to ask how you've all escaped to work at your place this afternoon. I think I'd better not know."

"JJ's sorting things. We'll talk to you later." The line went dead.

Hotch looked at Emily, burying any emotions he had felt during the last fifteen minutes. "We should go to dinner. If you're done in the bathroom I'll get ready myself."

She nodded and smiled weakly, before heading towards her bedroom, without so much of a word.


	14. Do not dwell in the past, do not dream

_A/N Thank you for the reviews and to HotchityHotchHotch and LilyMoonlight for the betas! Enjoy and please leave a review! I'm intending to start on the original novel this week so I'll need motivation to keep up with the fanfic!_

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 12**

"Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment."  
><strong>- Buddha<strong>

The dress seemed to have grown in size, not quite hugging her as it used to do. Emily pulled the belt in tighter around her and did her best to fold in the material so it didn't make her look too emaciated. They had no time for her to even consider clothes shopping, and besides, she would either end up slightly fatter once all this was over, or wouldn't be alive to wear another dress anyway, so buying new would be a waste of money.

She did seem to have more colour in her cheeks though and her hair had regained some of its glossiness. The opportunity to sleep had almost outweighed the worries that Hotch's arrival had brought, and she was almost appeased by his presence now. Almost.

Hotch's words had been ringing round her head for the past thirty minutes: _Prentiss is one of my team members and someone I consider to be a friend. If you're asking me if it goes beyond friendship then the answer's no, of course it doesn't. _The words had kicked her, wounded her in a way she hadn't thought possible. She and Hotch were friends; she had been there for him during the Foyet case, after the Foyet case and the friendship had been maintained, levelled out into one between equals, rather than boss and subordinate. Had she thought about Hotch on a deeper level than friends? Well, she had fantasized about him on more than one occasion; she found him attractive, so his word effectively ruling out any possibility of anything happening between them did sting.

She wrapped the words up and shoved them in a box in her head next to the one marked Doyle, deciding that they were almost as dangerous as the man she was hunting. Checking her hair which was only just avoiding being frizzy instead of curly, she left her room, its luxury something she knew she couldn't become accustomed to.

"I'm good to go," she said to Hotch, who was skimming though an American newspaper he had managed to get hold of. He folded the paper and stood, looking at her in a way she thought she recognized but didn't want to analyze.

"You look good," he said. "We could still do with longer here though."

She took the compliment as her mother had taught her, with a smile and slight nod. "Nothing from Garcia in the last half hour?"

"No. We'll call them later, and as long as Garcia says it's secure, you need to give her details of the place near Casole D'Elsa, then she can do what she needs regarding an internet connection and such," he said, checking his wallet was in his jacket pocket.

"Do you have the key card for the room?" she said, considering how strange it was to discuss such mundane things with him, given their situation.

He nodded. "I've put anything confidential in the safe in my closet. I will come up and check on the room at some point during dinner too."

"I can do that," she said, suddenly sick of Hotch managing what was her problem.

"I think it's best if you eat and relax," he said, giving her the look she imagined he usually saved for Jack when he was playing up. "Let me do the running around."

She waited for him as he checked that the door was locked behind them, studying his profile and general demeanor. He still hadn't shaved properly, allowing a neat growth over the lower half of his face. He also looked thinner, as if he had been running more instead of working out in the gym. "I think you need as much rest as me," she said. "I hope you don't think I'm out of line saying this, Hotch, but you don't look like you've been taking the best care of yourself either."

He looked ahead sharply, his face unreadable, but his darkened eyes gave away his thoughts. "Strauss has been on extended leave since just after you left; her work was delegated. The unit's been under increasing pressure due to the budget cuts and your exit caused the powers that be to ask some awkward questions about the team's ability. Now I don't want to make you feel guilty, Prentiss, I understand why you did what you did, but your attempts to protect the team have resulted in making things awkward."

"So you flew out here to tell me off," she said, now riled and angry. She stopped walking, putting her hands on her hips. "You know, Hotch, take a flight back and go deal with whatever problems I've caused back home, instead of playing the martyr over here. I can fight my own battles; clearly you need to concentrate on your own." She would have stormed off back to the room, but she hadn't taken her own key card, and thus would have been stood at the door waiting for him to let her in, negating any drama she was aiming for.

"Emily, you're underweight, exhausted and in no fit state to face Doyle. The Bureau is secondary to you surviving this and I'm not going back to Quantico until I can take you with me," he said, his voice low, barely audible, Hotch's way of saying he was pissed at her.

"Hotch, I know Doyle. I managed eighteen months undercover; I think I can manage another month now," she almost hissed the words at him.

"Then why did you have sex with a stranger in your room last night with no regard for your own safety or mine? He could have been anyone, Emily." He turned away from her and began to walk away from her as she stood there, stunned and staring at the floor.

_Prentiss is one of my team members and someone I consider to be a friend. If you're asking me if it goes beyond friendship then the answer's no, of course it doesn't._

The words snaked out of their box and slithered around her head.

"Hotch," she said. "Wait." She walked quickly to get to him. He stopped, but didn't look round. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did, and you're right, I shouldn't have taken someone I didn't know back to my room last night without checking their identity. It's not something I make a habit of."

"I didn't say it was," he said. "And I apologize. It was low of me to throw that at you."

"How did you know?" She felt her toes curl with embarrassment.

Hotch still hadn't looked at her. "I went to your room to discuss something with you, and I heard you were busy."

"Hotch..." she started to speak and then stopped. She didn't need to explain herself to him. Just because he was always whiter than white didn't make him her priest. "I need to eat." She started walking, taking the stairs rather than the elevator, and burning off her exasperation and annoyance physically instead.

The restaurant was only a quarter full, and they were seated far enough away from anyone else for conversation to be easy. Emily made a point of studying the menu instead of glancing at Hotch, ignoring the eyes of the waiter who seemed anxious to take their order.

"What would you recommend?" Hotch said, his tone back to its usual unemotional note.

"Anything," she said. "This seems to be a pretty good restaurant." She was deliberately obtuse, wanting to annoy him. She looked up and caught the eye of the impatient waiter. "I'll have Filettini Al Barolo."

Hotch ordered ribs and steak, going out to prove he was total caveman. She made no comment, simply glancing around the room, seemingly admiring the decor.

"If it makes you feel better I slept with a woman whose name I didn't know when I was stuck at the airport in Berlin."

Her gaze became a stare and latched itself straight on him. Then she looked away, trying to prove that what he had said didn't affect her at all. But it had done. She bit her lips together and smothered the jealously that was tenderising her insides.

"I'm not bragging, or trying to prove I'm not a prude. I'm sorry for bringing up what I heard and accusing you of being foolhardy." He looked sheepish, watching the sommelier who had now come over to pour their wine. He declined tasting it first, instead gesturing to Emily. "She knows more about wine than I."

She sipped the red, tasting an oakiness that her mother would've approved of, and nodded at the waiter. Once he had disappeared she looked at Hotch, this time with curiosity. "You keep yourself at such a distance from the rest of us emotionally that it's difficult to believe you have needs." She took a drink of the alcohol and reminded herself that she was technically dead and he wasn't her boss. "Other unit chiefs let themselves go a little, occasionally, but you stayed reserved, even after Haley left."

"I thought we were friends," he said. "I'd consider yourself and Rossi, and probably JJ now, my closest confidants."

The statement didn't shock her, it was what she had suspected for a long time, but it wrenched at something in her chest. "But Hotch, you still keep us at arm's length..."

"You have seen me at my lowest and at my worst. I can trust you and the rest of the team with both my life and that of my son's, and I have always had your back, not just professionally, and I will always put that before the Bureau, just as you did for me," he said, each word said with the determination and quiet assurance that she had heard a thousand times before. "If I don't share in the same way as Morgan or Reid or Garcia, it's not because I don't trust, but because I don't see why I should burden you with my worries."

She took another mouthful."Then that undermines the friendship we have offered you. It also shows how you hate to show weakness, even to those who would admire you for overcoming your weaknesses. Sleeping with a stranger is not a crime, Hotch. It just proves you have the same needs as the rest of us, and that you are prepared to take the same risks. Did you use protection?" She couldn't resist the last sentence, her eyes dancing, the stem of her glass tipped towards him.

He laughed, looking away, the briefest of nods. "I'm glad I've managed to distract you."

She put her wine down, the spell broken. But her heart still ran a marathon at the speed of a sprint inside her chest. "Tell me about Dave's office affairs. I'm surprised he hasn't written a novel based on them yet."

Hotch raised an eyebrow. "Really? You have a thing for Dave?"

"There is no way you could profile me about Dave from asking that." _I have a thing for you, but you're just too far up your own ass to notice._ At some point she would say it. After all, what was there to lose at this point in her life?

Hotch's lips twitched into his version of a smile. "Contrary to what most people think, Dave's generally dated women in a senior position to him. Probably because they had more to lose and wouldn't have attempted to become wife number next."

"You've got to give me more than that," Emily said, feeling any anger leave her now, drowned by the wine. "Tell me, and then I'll share about Morgan and Reid."

"Do I really want to know?" Hotch said.

She nodded. "For your future working relationships and considerations in the workplace, you should know."

He looked defeated. "As long as you have dessert."

"Try and stop me." The entrees arrived. Emily eyed Hotch's ribs, the sauce covering them making her mouth water. "Share?" she said, offering hers.

He conceded, demolishing a rib in close to a minute. "Rossi dated Strauss before she was married," Hotch said, just as Emily was part way through her second rib. "He two-timed her with her best friend, Amanda Neild, who now works for Scotland Yard. But unbeknownst to Rossi, Strauss was two timing him with the man she married. I think she always felt a little guilty about it, that she somehow damaged his ego."

"Rossi – damaged ego? Man, she really should never consider profiling," Emily said, wiping her mouth as gracefully as she could, knowing full well she had sauce all over. "You want to know about Reid?"

"More so than Morgan. He's hardly a closed book when it comes to his love life," Hotch said.

Emily nodded. "Fair assumption. Who would you put Reid with?"

"Contrary to Derek, I don't think Reid has much trouble with women, as the self-effacing persona he puts across could well be attractive to some. Someone who Morgan thinks would be out of Reid's league?"

"They don't pay you for being pretty, do they?" Emily said. "Spot on. Reid's last conquest that I know of was Emilia Rogers from Counter-Terrorism."

"The new girl with the..."

"Boob job. Yes. Her. She has a friend, Jenny, who grabs a coffee from Wilde's Coffee Bar, which is where I usually go in the mornings before work. She was totally full of what happened and it just had to come out. I did what any responsible citizen did to ensure Jenny could fully concentrate on her job and provided an ear. Reid has no idea I know, by the way." Emily finished the glass of wine and poured herself another before the sommelier could notice and come over.

"Maybe you should mention it to him when you're back home," Hotch said.

She gave him her don't even go there look, to which he raised an eyebrow, finishing off her entree.

"We need you back on the team," he said, once he had swallowed. There was a pause while she became uncomfortable under his glare. "I need you back on the team."

She waited until their plates had been collected and the table dusted down for crumbs before responding. Her intuition told her there was more than her just being back on the team; that it was more than that for him, but she didn't want to make that judgement. She had wondered why he had come alone, and for how long that solitariness would continue. "Hotch," she said, when her silence had become as thick as fog. "I can't think about what will happen. All I know is that I have to end Doyle before he ends me."

"I understand that," Hotch said. "I felt like that about Foyet. But you _will_ be okay. You can have plans. What would you like to do?"

She felt queasy just thinking about it. "Go back to the team, and get on with everything as it was before as much as possible. Some things will have changed irreversibly; it won't be exactly the same because I didn't let you in about Doyle, and Reid and Morgan will always see that as a rejection..."

"I do too," Hotch said.

She was stunned for a moment, looking at him open mouthed. "Hotch," she said, the words felt stunted, as if they were actual obstacles in her mouth. "I didn't..." She swallowed. "I did, didn't I?"

He nodded. "I understand why. I would have done the same thing – I suppose I did with Foyet to a certain extent. But you should have known you could have told me, Emily, even if you were concerned about putting the rest of the team at risk."

She nodded, leaning back from the table as their waiter brought their main course. She heard her stomach rumble and realised it was a sound she hadn't heard for months. Her appetite was resuming.

"Can you forgive me?" she said, once the waiter had departed.

"I already have," he said simply, beginning to eat. "Can you forgive me for intruding on your battle?"

She smiled, unable not to. "I already did."


	15. In the sky, there is no distinction

_A/N Thank you for the reviews! You made my week! Please keep on reviewing, or even review if you haven't done so far – it's the only form of payment us fanfic writers get!_

_I am on Twitter with a new name – WriterUpAPole – the account is the same though!_

_This chapter is rated M for the later part. Not too graphic though._

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 13**

"In the sky, there is no distinction of east and west; people create distinctions out of their own minds and then believe them to be true."  
><strong>- Buddha<strong>

It didn't have to be Italy. It could have been anywhere, any hotel room, any country. Hotch locked the door behind them, double checking it was secure, then followed Emily into the lounge. She was standing at kitchenette area, inspecting the coffee provisions.

"It's maybe not a good idea," she said. "Given we're being picked up in five hours. In fact, I don't think there's any point in even trying to sleep."

"You would never say that when we were on a case," Hotch said, taking over the coffee making. "Even if there was a chance of a thirty minute cat nap, you'd grab it with both eyes."

He heard her laugh lightly, making her way to the sofa and half collapsing on it. She looked sleepy, tired still.

"I'll make you a latte," he said. "You should still try and sleep for a couple of hours. I imagine you'll be able to carry on in the car."

"True," she said, now lying on the sofa. "And if I don't take my make up off now, I won't have to reapply it when we leave. There's something wrong with that logic somewhere." She groaned into the pillow.

Hotch found himself watching her, feeling too at ease. Their conversation over dinner had become easier; she'd relaxed, laughed, made jokes – at his expense a few times – and at some point he'd understood that she was no longer his subordinate, or the ambassador's daughter, or an FBI agent. She was his friend, whom he might feel more for.

He took her coffee to her, and sat next to her on the sofa, his instincts on alert for any sign she wasn't comfortable with his close proximity. She sat up, her elbows resting on her knees, thumbs massaging her temples.

His heart began to beat a little faster. "Here," he said. "Let me." She did so without question, leaning back towards him as his fingers moved to her hair, smoothing it out of the way, and he started to apply slight pressure. He knew her eyes had closed, and some tension had left her shoulders; her breathing slowed as he continued, pulling his fingers down her scalp to her neck and then to her shoulders. He could tell she was struggling to stay sitting up, so he backed away a little and swung a leg around her onto the sofa so she could use his chest as a back rest. A chorus of reprimands played in his head, but he chose to ignore them.

"Why are you actually here, Hotch?" Her voice broke part of the spell, however drowsy it was. "The rest of the team should be with you if this was just about getting rid of Doyle."

His hands still, dark hair entwined around his finger tips. He became overly aware of how they were sitting, her head almost resting just above his abdomen, her warmth seeping into his thighs where her legs brushed his. He let himself lean back, meaning that she was now lying on top of him, keeping his hands in her hair. "Because of you," he said, then he felt one of her hands on his thigh, squeezing it gently. His body was reacting to her closeness, and he knew she would be able to tell. Hotch slid a hand down her side to her waist, letting it rest there. If she wanted to he knew she would move, and there were enough plausible excuses for her to give that would take away any residue of awkwardness.

A hand slipped over his, and she moved it onto her abdomen, just below her breasts. He could feel the rhythm of her heart beat, and he fought the urge to let his hands wander to feel it more clearly. She stirred, turning over and straddling him, his eyes moving to parts the agent in him usually avoided. "Because of me?" she said. He could see her breasts heaving up and down with her breath and he itched to cup them with his hands. He restrained himself, something he'd had enough practice at over the years, and focused on her expression instead. Her hands rested on his shoulders, pressing him down. He understood her need for control right now so he didn't interfere, leaving her to decide whether to make a move or not

"Hotch," she said. "What because of me)? I thought this didn't go beyond friendship. I heard you tell Rossi."

He'd thought she'd heard, but as she'd made no comment he'd let it go. "Am I really going to tell Dave that I've not just come here because of Doyle? I have some pride. I had – still have – no idea of how you feel, what state of mind you're in, nothing." He paused, debating how much to let go. The bubble of frustration that had been growing since she'd left was as taut as it could be. "I've spent the past few months missing you, wishing you were still at the Bureau, cursing the fact that I didn't catch Doyle before he hurt you and you had to go on the run." He stopped, needing a reaction from her.

"I can't give you anything," she said. She was sitting on him now, pressing down on his erection. Her pupils were dilated and her cheeks were reddened; he wasn't the only one. "All I can give you right now is sex, Hotch. I can't make you an emotional commitment because I don't even know where I'll be in a week's time. If I go back to the BAU we'll have to be colleagues and friends, not lovers. I can't be anything else – there will be enough questions asked of me if I manage to make it back."

He didn't respond, letting his hands shift to her waist, only the thin fabric of her dress separating him from her skin. Did he only want sex? He wasn't sure that was all it would be, could be. But now wasn't the time to chance it, for either of them. "I don't know what I want, apart from you to be home, back in my life and all our lives. It's more than friendship, and right now, with everything that's going on, being away from normality, it would be very easy to slip into something."

She nodded, her eyes averting to his chest, but not moving her position. Her thumbs twitched against his shoulders, asserting their presence. "We should go to bed," she said. "Think about this. What it would mean if this," she gestured downwards, "went further. It may not be for the best. It could just confuse things and make it awkward between us."

He moved his hands further up, so they were parallel with her breasts, again fighting the urge to touch. "Maybe you should..." he wasn't sure how to phrase it without making it sound like he wanted her to move, which he didn't.

"Sure," she moved a leg over him, standing up, leaving him feeling vulnerable and cold, somehow exposed. "I'll see you in the morning," she said. "Although it already is morning."

She nodded, sitting up and trying to feel composed. "Sleep well," he said, knowing that he himself was unlikely too. Instead he would be running through their conversation, analysing her tone of voice, the way she fidgeted with her hands, her eyes. It was at times like this he hated his job. He wondered if she would do the same, or if she would sleep peacefully.

"I'll try," she said. "See you in Italy."

He didn't quite understand what she meant, and knew he would spend the rest of the night deciphering the words.

She didn't sleep. The night time danced a paso doble in front of her very eyes, each step more complex than the last, each twist more dramatic in its passion. In front of her closed eyes, shadows swayed, an odd light piercing her eyelids and seizing sleep, keeping it hostage. She ached for unconsciousness, a temporary oblivion, where she didn't need to consider her future, what it could be.

Hotch had surprised her in some ways. She had figured already that there was a deeper reason for his sudden desire to see her, to end this affair with Doyle. Not everything was about the team and the Bureau, some things were about him. She remembered the days after Haley's death, the couple of phone calls she had received where he had said little, just needing to hear about everyday occurrences to keep him reality's grasp. She'd obliged with whatever he had needed, just as she had been the one to look for him after George Foyet's attack. The memory of that would still haunt her, often in the hours just before dawn when the night was at its darkest, her mind at a point where rationality became a whisper that was difficult to hear. It was then something had changed, their relationship shifted at that point and the line between boss and subordinate blurred. She'd earned his trust by that point, proved herself beyond doubt.

The sheets felt cold against her skin, the bed too big. She pulled one of the pillows down next to her, half imagining it was Hotch's body, as it could have been. The encounter she'd had the night before had left no trace on her body, or her mind. She felt neither guilt nor pride as she let her thoughts wander over the contours of her ex-boss; the muscles she had felt beneath his shirt; the firmness of his chest; the push of his erection as she had straddled his hips. There was no future for them. Either she would fall against Doyle, or she would return to Quantico, with Hotch as her boss once more, any relationship out of the question.

Carnal knowledge of each other would not hinder their working relationship. In fact the notion of working on a case with him, following his instruction and adhering to his leadership at the same time as knowing what he was like in bed would only be a turn on, would only add to her power – and frustration. But was that what she wanted? Would sleeping with him not make her hanker for more? Doyle had been a hand holding her back for too many years now, and this would be the last opportunity to lay him to rest, hopefully in the physical sense. Then she would be able to move forward, to emotionally engage with a man she was an equal with, to form a connection that could endure her flaws and needs.

Emily clenched her fists, a thud of frustration hitting her like a landslide. They were adults. They would deal with a sexual encounter like adults and accept it for what it was. The worry and fear from the past few months had coiled up within her like a snake and sleeping with a stranger had done nothing to alleviate that tension. Hotch would be different, she knew. She knew when she had felt him underneath her that he would make her see stars, touch them, dance over them. There would be a power there to match her own and erase the hold that Doyle'd had over her for too long. She needed to feel alive.

The state of half-sleep made her restless, turning and tangling herself up in the sheets that were now creased beneath her. Hotch seemed to have imprinted his body on her, her legs and hands remembered the feel of him, her waist had been scarred by his hands. She arched her back, pushing her head back into the pillow and attempting to find a position that would promote sleep, but instead her mind threw images of Hotch in bed with her, his hands exploring her, tormenting and relieving her with each touch. It hadn't taken much before to make her ready for him before, just his scent, the heat of his body against hers and the tension that had been almost palpable from when they had met in Helsinki. She hadn't bothered with a night shirt, slipping between the covers needing something rougher next to her skin than the material that had been well worn over the past few months. Her hands began to slide over her skin, between the sheets, feeling nipples that were already hardened. She moved the cottoned sheet over them, the friction sending waves down to her centre that resumed the ache she had felt before.

Her orgasm came quickly, making her buckle and moan under her a touch that was someone else's by proxy. Afterwards she felt an emptiness, the coldness of the space next to her filtered through her skin, wrapping itself around her heart whose fate was yet to be decided.

This time Hotch recognised the noises without them having to register what they were. They were quieter and more enticing, given the knowledge that no one was helping her this time. He stood in the lounge and listened, refusing to scuttle into his own room and pretend that he couldn't hear. He felt raw, as if someone had taken wire wool to his insides and brushed hard, but it was an abrasion he needed, waking the fight within him.

Her cries grew louder before they ended and he wondered what she had been thinking as she climaxed, whether it was about him and earlier, her body pressed next to his. Only now did he return to his room, his body stinging, aching as it recalled her touch, her fingers around his shoulders, biceps. He pictured her naked against the sheets that were scrunched underneath her from her movements, which became their movements in his mind.

Locking the door to his own room, he stripped, throwing the clothes into an untidy, uncharacteristic pile. He glanced in the bathroom mirror, the scruff on his face combined with weight he had lost gave him a rougher look than he was used to seeing. He imagined Emily behind him, following him into the bathroom, into the shower cubicle. The jets of water hit him hard against his skin as he turned them on full, the heat causing billows of steam to rise around him, sheath the mirror in a coat of condensation and dampen the air.

Hotch closed his eyes, picturing Emily, dark hair sprawled over the pillowless sheets, her mouth open, lips red, long eyelashes brushing her cheeks that gained more flush with each thrust. His hand grasped his penis and he leaned back against the tiles, every hand movement making the Emily in his head moan more, her breasts heaving with her breath as his mouth took a hardened nipple and sucked, nipping with his teeth.

He felt himself tense as he began the little death, the rapid water washing away the traces and hiding the noises that were escaping from his own mouth. Afterwards he leaned back again, the shower drenching him, thuds of water echoing in his ears, the sounds he had imagined coming from Emily now silent.


	16. Hard times arouse an instinctive desire

_A/N Sorry it's been such a long time since I updated... Hope you enjoy – please review! Thanks to HotchityHotchHotch for betaing and I'm going to get up to date on your stories this week!_

**Tread Softly**

**Chapter 14**

"Hard times arouse an instinctive desire for authenticity."  
><strong>- Coco Chanel<strong>

**Quantico, July 2011**

Strange rooms had long since ceased to be strange, given how many she had slept in over the years. JJ had stayed at Rossi's before, after the odd dinner party with Will, even before Will when she and Emily had been too drunk to consider even attempting to get a taxi home. She lay on her back and looked at the ceiling, laughing to herself as she considered her position, which would have been the butt of several jokes if she were to talk to Emily in the morning, if they had been away on a case. If everything had been back to normal.

Downstairs Reid, Rossi and Morgan were still sat round a table, discussing the profiles they were putting together of Doyle's companions. The conversation had been heated at various points during the evening; Morgan becoming riled on several occasions by Reid's inability to think outside of his own box that was filled with the things that had already been done wrong on this case. At one point, JJ had left the room, unable to sit and listen to another diatribe in which both she and Hotch were basically made out to be traitors. She had heard his silence after she had left, his unawareness at the feelings he was creating and she lost the urge to hit him, or at the very least, spike his food with something he was allergic to and would give them a few hours break while attended the emergency room.

She was trying to subdue her anger again when a knock sounded at her door. "Come in, Garcia," she said, sitting up and pulling the duvet around her.

"How did you know it was me?" Garcia said, looking open mouthed and radiating positivity that JJ knew would have been conjured up just for her.

"No one else knocks to the rhythm of the Avengers," JJ said. "What's up?"

"I needed me some girly time," she said, sitting on the edge of JJ's bed. "Hotch sent a message saying that he and Em have had a nice evening. They're being picked up at 4am to go to Casole d'Elsa, which looks like a fairy tale version of Italy." She smiled, looking too hopeful.

"Spit it out," JJ said, knowing it was best to be her that heard Garcia's theories than Reid or Morgan. Especially Reid.

"You think this might be the start of something, Jayje? You know, for both of them? Hotch has always been superman; Em is Wonder Woman on a daily basis..."

"Honestly? I don't know. I've noticed over the past few months that Hotch's stress levels have risen to new heights, and it hasn't just been because of the team and the scrutiny we've been under. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that Hotch hasn't been worried about that at all. Instead he's been tracking Emily, asking about her – even the strangest details," JJ said, relief slipping over her like clean sheets as she could finally confess.

"What sort of details?" Garcia said, almost impatiently.

"Who she'd dated, for how long. I think he did background checks on anyone I could tell him about. He went to her apartment although I'm not sure what he did there. That kind of freaked me out," JJ said. She was debating whether or not to tell Emily that bit of information, or to prompt Hotch to tell her. Some of his behavior had broached stalker territory.

Garcia looked thoughtful, then triumphant. "You know she's always had a thing for him."

JJ nodded slowly. "I guessed he was her type. She could never date someone who wasn't an alpha male. That was the problem. When she went out with someone who wasn't she ended up emasculating them and feeling crap about herself. It's only been since Foyet and Haley though that Em seemed to put herself on the same level as Hotch."

"She told me once she thought he was hot," Garcia said, grinning. "I almost told Hotch about that after we thought Emily had died, thought it might make him smile a bit, but he seemed more uptight than ever so I figured that I'd end up with a disciplinary if I spilled the dirt."

"Go on, what did she say about him?" JJ said, knowing that if she didn't listen then Garcia would only try and tell Reid, and that would not end in a pretty fashion.

Garcia smiled, clearly enjoying the memory. "She'd been drinking. I think it was two for one cocktails at the bar near her apartment, and Kevin was away, you were at Will's cousins for the weekend. A guy approached Em and made it obvious that he found her desirable and she shot him down, even though he was pretty nice – suited and booted, tall, blonde and buff.

"I asked her why, and she said he wasn't her type, then she downed the rest of her cocktail, looking somewhat unlike her usual chirpy self and looked glum. It ended up being some of the best detective work I'd ever done, finally getting it out of her that the only man she could ever see herself being with was someone like our fearless team leader," Garcia looked triumphant.

JJ squinted at her. "What exactly did she say?"

"Word for word, or with added embellishments?"

"The real life version, not Penny's Modern Fairy Tales."

Garcia issued a mock glare. "She said that every time she met someone who she could have dated she compared them to the men she worked with, because she knew that eventually the team would meet her beau – okay that's my word – and make a judgement. So, I probed a bit deeper, and Em said that she always compared them most to Hotch, because he was the one guy on the team she thought would be able to manage her..."

"Manage her? What did she mean?" JJ interrupted. The notion of anyone 'managing' Emily was disturbing at best.

"I think she meant be able to handle her. Someone she can compete with and not always come out best against."

"You think Hotch could manage Emily then? Why not Morgan? I don't even need to question Reid or Rossi for obvious reasons," JJ said, the idea of Reid and Emily ever having anything other than a big sister/little brother relationship somewhat unnerving.

"Em and my ebony god are too similar. She knows he's a player and she could probably out play him. Besides, Wonder Woman needs someone who can beat her at her own game on occasion and as much as I love him, Derek would not cut that mustard. Anyway, what she said about Hotch. I plied her with more alcohol and then asked her if she found him attractive..."

"If this conversation took place around the time I think it did then Emily was having something of a barren spell and would have found anything with a penis that stood still for long enough attractive," JJ said, giving Garcia a look that said she knew about all the ways in which she could use hyperbole.

"No, it wasn't that and Emily did have standards, even then – I remember that desert. She said she did find him attractive, although she hadn't always. It was only since she had gotten to know him more than he had stopped being irritating and started to be the focus of a few fantasies – and yes, my dear JJ, she did indeed say that," Garcia put her feet up on JJ's bed. The evening appeared to be lengthening.

"Go on," JJ said, making a mental note to encourage Garcia more with her theatrical antics as she did indeed have a flair for the dramatic. "What did she say about him?"

Garcia fanned herself with her hand, casting her eyes to the ceiling. "It was more of a case of what she didn't say. Apparently she caught him almost naked once."

JJ raised her eyebrows, wondering why she hadn't heard this story from Emily, but then again, it did sometimes take a lot of alcohol to pry anything that she wanted to keep huddled to her chest. "Hotch – nearly naked, caught by Emily. Okay, you have my attention."

"Hotch had been out running – I think it was one of those days when he'd had a seemingly endless meeting, and Emily had been to the gym. She walked into the locker room – I think it was fairly late, elevenish or something like that – and saw Hotch soaking wet through and in the process of stripping off his t-shirt. Emily said she couldn't take her eyes off him; something to do with abs and scars and power. She stood there staring for long enough for him to look over at her and explain that the men's locker room had been locked up by mistake and he needed to change before he could drive home and did she have a towel he could borrow..."

"She didn't start to rub him down did she?"

"Later in her dreams. Then after a couple more drinks she listed all the reasons why she wouldn't find anyone she could ever introduce to her boss..."

A knock at the door made both JJ and Garcia jump. Morgan entered without waiting for permission. "You ladies having a slumber party without me?"

JJ glared at him. "We were escaping Reid."

"He has been rather trying today. Maybe we should employ a nanny," Morgan said. "Who were you talking about?"

JJ scooted back down under the quilt, hoping both Morgan and Garcia would take the hint about her need for sleep.

"Our absent team members," Garcia said.

"Hopefully not absent for much longer," Morgan said, giving them both a wide grin. "Rossi thinks we should look to head out to Italy in a few days; take Doyle down as a team."

"Can we leave Reid at home?" JJ said, still feeling disgruntled.

"We'll arrange to have him kidnapped by the mob."

**Florence to Casole d'Elsa, July 2011**

A hazy stripe of red sky bled out on the horizon, buildings still projecting the black of night around the streets through which the car meandered. Emily felt jet lagged almost, a lack of sleep making her eyes dry and heavy, her legs feeling like lead.

Hotch had almost shoved her into the back of the car, taking the passenger seat himself as soon as he was satisfied that their driver was who he said he was. Their driver was a priest now living at the retreat just outside Casole D'Elsa and he said very little, and asked no questions at all. The car was as silent as the desolate streets, the passengers too tired and preoccupied to instigate conversation, and right now, Emily wasn't sure she ever wanted to speak again at all. Tiredness combined with the fluster of emotions she was enduring was overwhelming her. Nothing made sense. Once she had managed to fall asleep, Hotch had plagued her dreams in a mixture of ways. He had disciplined her, took her to task for not confiding in him and the team, for not telling the truth, and then told her she wasn't to be trusted and could no longer be part of the team. In another he had been in her bed, between her legs, and she'd woken up mid-orgasm, something that hadn't happened to her in years. They'd been one more dream, the one causing most anxiety. She'd had to meet him at a train station, to catch a train to a place she was uncertain of, but she couldn't get to his platform, and had to navigate crossing the tracks only to see him leave without her, without even glancing around to see where she was. She'd felt bereft, a sense of loss and bewilderment even now, to the extent where she found herself watching the back of his head with a longing to touch him, check he was still there and not just a mirage.

"Are you okay, Prentiss?" he said, as they started to leave the city, the sky still a dawn rainbow of dark blues and reds, a butchered sea.

"Fine. Strange dreams," she said, almost whispered.

"If Reid were here he'd analyze them for you," he said. "Then tell you about the science – or lack of – behind it. What were they about?"

She gave a quick glance at the driver, who appeared ignorant of their presence, and she was unsure how much English he spoke anyway, having only conversed with him in Italian. In for a dollar, _in for a dime,_ she thought. "You."

"Me?" She knew he would have raised his eyebrows.

"You wouldn't wait for me. We were catching a train but I couldn't get to the platform in time, and you didn't wait," she heard the anxiety in her own voice and knew Hotch would have noticed it too.

He didn't say anything, his head looking straight, eyes on the road, and Emily closed her eyes and wished more than anything she had accepted what he had offered the night before.


End file.
